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N. DALY 


Li/vyiEr 


(ASjEa^(bMpAt)Y> 
l BroadWay NeV/or 










With a woman.” We almost forget this saying when we‘ 
hear of a housekeeper who hasn’t sense enough to use. 

SAPOLIO. 

A complete wreck of domestic happiness has often result- 
ed from badly washed dishes, from an unclean kitchen, or 
from trifles which seemed light as air. But by these things 
a man often judges of his wife’s devotion to her family, ind 
charges her with general neglect when he finds her '•.ire- 
less in these particulars. Many a home owes a large parli 
of its thrifty neatness and its consequent happiness to f 
SAPOLIO. No, 23. 


A MORAL SINNER 


BY 

MYRTILLA N. DALY 





; know 

That we have power within ourselves to do 
And suffer ; what , we know not till we try ; 
But something nobler than to live and die, 

So taught the kings of old philosophy.” 

—Shelley. 


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Copyright, 1886, by O. M. Dunham. 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. 

At a Breakfast Table, 7 

CHAPTER II. 

Propinquity, 18 

CHAPTER III. 

At the Fete, .... ... 24 

CHAPTER IV. 

Clarence Thornberry, .... 31 

CHAPTER V. 

A Strange Proceeding, 42 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Cotillon, 57 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Morning After, 66 

CHAPTER VIII. 

An Interlude, 79 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Visit to the Monastery, .... 83 

CHAPTER X. 

Retrospection, ...... 91 


VI 


Contents. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Precipitation, 

. . ioo 

CHAPTER XII. 

ClNTRA, 

IOI 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Lesson Learned, 

. . I 12 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Half Hour in a Studio, 

. . 1 2 1 

CHAPTER XV. 

Reparation, 

. . 127 

CHAPTER XVI. 

“ The Irony of Fate,” 

137 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Countess Elzevir, 

. 142 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Bid Time Return, 

148 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Paragraphs, 

• 159 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Cruise of the Heron, 

. . 169 

Coda, • ••••«• 

. , l82 


A MORAL SINNER. 


CHAPTER I. 

AT A BREAKFAST TABLE. 

T HE degeneracy of the age is the sole excuse for the 
novels or novelists of to day. Were we not so 
depraved as to prefer “ new ” to “ good ”, “ bad ” to “ old ”, 
the majority would not exist. That dear old trio, Charles, 
William, and Walter, need not fear : they will not 
be rivaled in literary merit : they may for a time be 
crowded off the table, but they will always hold 
their own on the book-shelves. 

But as long as there is a cry for something “ just out ” 
there will be an excuse to write ; and with this excuse, 
I begin my story. 

A breakfast table ! Would it be possible to attack 
people at a more uninteresting moment ? But break- 
fast is essential to one’s comfort, however exalted, so 
it should not be despised on paper any more than in 
real life. 

Besides, this was not an ordinary breakfast, for at the 
table were seated five or six charming young women 
and as many equally interesting men ; and a pleasant, 
rosy-tinted, gray-haired dame gave a proper dignity to 
the scene. 


8 


A Moral Sinner . 


It was a delightful room too; the out-come of the nine- 
teenth century’s high art. 

We care for nothing startling in the early day, it should 
dawn on us gradually without a shock. To drink coffee in 
the morning in a brilliantly colored room, is like trying to 
watch the transit of a heavenly body across the sun’s 
disk without a bit of smoked glass : we blink and wink, 
and consider the enjoyment of the whole performance as 
very questionable. 

But the coloring here was neither gay nor frivolous. The 
walls were hung in brown plush, that soft, beautiful, 
caressing shade, that time has put on many an old canvas 
in the Louvre or the Luxumbourg ; a deep Venetian 
border of gold gave it a subdued richness, that one felt 
rather than saw. If a breakfast table is well set, well 
served, the rest of the household may be safely judged 
perfection. Oh the agony of a table-cloth vacillating 
to the east or west, when it should point due north ! And 
some think at this unimportant meal a medley of nonde- 
script dishes admissible ! But not so here; the cloth was 
of the finest damasked holland, of a rich orange and 
brown ; and every article thereon of amber color. No 
incongruity of tints ; no plebeian crockery, no ordinary 
table paraphernalia found its way hither : even the 
knives and forks had amber handles. The curtains were 
drawn aside, and in at the long open windows old 
Mother Nature wished the tardy fast breakers a much 
pleasanter “ good-morning ” than they deserved. Here 
and there among the folds of the hangings an exquisite 
aquarelle peeped out, and charming bits of statuary 
brought reflected lights into the dark corners. 

Very few of us are apt to be in an amiable frame of 
mind at that early and tasteless meal ; but the assemblage 
here was a brilliant exception. Perhaps it was because 


At a Breakfast Table. 


9 


they were not in their own respective homes, the only 
place one can afford being as disagreeable as one may 
desire. 

They had been talking in a desultory sort of way, 
trying to weave the weather into an interesting conversa- 
tion, when the door opened, and another young person 
appeared. Had Diana in her early youth found a good 
English tailor, she might have had him make her a per- 
fect fitting riding habit, which would have shown off her 
comely young person to the greatest advantage ; then as 
she had entered the aerial dining hall, the same thrill of 
admiration would have shot through Jupiter’s battered 
old heart, as here electrified the assembled gentlemen, as 
Florence Andrews entered the room. She stopped a 
moment at the door, with that sweet little expression of 
deprecation, which went straight to their hearts — the 
women called it posing — it might have illustrated that 
trite quotation of angels fearing to tread where fools 
rush in. 

“ Good-morning, ” she said coming toward them. 
“ What a delicious sight ! You look like a co-educational 
establishment.” They all laughed ; but they always did 
laugh at whatever Florence said, whether it was amusing 
or not — the tribute usually paid to reputed wits. “ Here is 
the mail,” she continued ; “ but don’t agitate yourselves, 
there is only one manly hand among them, so they are 
neither bills nor billets doux. Lady Davenport, the single 
interesting one is for you,” and she held up a large 
square envelope. 

“ It is Thornberry’s crest,” said one of the men, as he 
passed the letter over to Lady Davenport. 

“Then I fear he is not coming,” she exclaimed regret- 
fully, as she hurriedly broke the seal. 

If you had heard the lamentations that rose from the 


10 


A Moral Sinner. 


breakfast table, you might have realized in part the fear- 
ful calamity her ladyship’s melancholy conjecture fore- 
told ; followed by an expressive, expectant silence, while 
she glanced through the letter, before reading it aloud. 

She sighed heavily, wiped away a mistiness round her 
eyes, and began it in a sad, disheartened tone. 

“ Alas ! fate has cruelly decreed I am not to be with 
you. Some malicious doctors have pronounced my lungs 
weak, and my poor old mother is so worried, I feel for 
her sake I shall have to forego the pleasure you so 
kindly ask me to share. A coaching party through the 
north of England ! What could be more enticing ? If I 
were a woman I would sit down and weep, but being a 
man I can only — ” The good lady looked hard at the 
word, pretending not to make it out. 

“ Swear,” interrupted Percy Garritson. “ Confound it ! 
it is all a man can do.” 

“ And he is not coming ? ” exclaimed they. “ What 
shall we do without him ? ” 

“ O it is too bad, such a dreadful pity ! ” 

“ Let us give it up ! ” 

“ Let us postpone it, until he recovers ! ” 

“ Let us go to him ! ” 

“ We will miss him more than anyone else ! ” 

These were a few of the many heart-rending ejacula- 
tions. 

“ And I do not feel a bit sorry, but am awfully glad he 
is sick, and hope he will remain so,” was the crowning 
remark ; it came from Miss Andrews, upon whom the 
entire table turned with indignation and amazement. 

She however quietly continued her breakfast, indifferent 
alike to their surprise and reproaches. “ You need not 
try so hard to convince me of my utter depravity,” she 
answered calmly. “Your friend is ill ; you regret it, I 


II 


At a Breakfast Table. 

do not. I admit my remark was cruel, unladylike per- 
haps ; I intended to be only truthful ; why do you allow 
your coffee to get cold, while calling me disagreeable 
names ? What good does it do ? I regard Lord Thorn- 
berry’s illness as providential ; he would have spoiled all 
my pleasure.” 

“ Florence,” said Lady Davenport, “ you are talking in 
a very foolish and childish manner.” 

“ Childish, dear one, did you call me ? ” and the girl 
looked very earnestly at Lady Davenport. “ Why, my 
queen of hearts, it is not my fault if candor is out of 
fashion ; and as for being foolish, you know I am an 
American, and we are apt to make a great many silly, 
empty speeches, you solid English people would never 
be guilty of.” 

“ O blessed Americans ! ” Lady Davenport murmured 
half aloud, “their nationality serves always as the scape- 
goat for their folly or vulgarity.” She was not in a 
pleasant frame of mind just now, and was thinking 
seriously of cutting the day short by going to bed 
again. 

“ But Clarence Thornberry is awfully nice,” said one 
of the damsels ; “ he is descended from William the 
Conqueror.” 

“ What a recommendation ! ” Florence cried. “ William 
the Conqueror ! poor old gentleman, how respectable he 
must have been, to have the remnants still exist after the 
wear and tear of seven centuries. If the Mormon fore- 
father, like the Norman forefather, is responsible for the 
sins of his posterity, what a time he will have ! If I were 
a friend of Lord Thornberry I should hunt up a worthier 
claim on society ; but perhaps none can be found ? ” 

“ Nonsense, Clarence Thornberry is one of the best, 
noblest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived,” exclaimed 


12 


A Moral Sinner . 


Percy Garritson; “ I don’t see how you can have such a 
grudge against him ! ” 

Florence not deigning a reply, lone Travers, a hardy 
English girl, volunteered information on the subject. 
“ Florence dislikes him,” she began solemnly, “ because 
he took her picture out of my album a year or two ago. 
She has never forgiven him, and I do not believe she 
ever will.” 

“But it is not so wicked to steal a girl’s picture,” 
remarked the man next to her, with whom the others at 
once agreed. 

Florence looked up indignantly. “ Our ideas differ. 1 
think it very wicked, if it is my picture. I would not care 
a sou if he lost both his lungs, and his noble family 
passed entirely out of existence. I am surer than ever 
that he is horrid. I always despise people whom every 
one else is so wild over.” 

Again like vultures they came down upon her, with 
violent protests against her contempt. 

“ Now confess ! ” exclaimed a certain Captain Rogers; 
“ have you ever seen Thornberry ? Personally do you 
know any thing of him ? ” 

“ No, I do not,” Florence admitted readily, “ and for 
that I have given thanks the same as I gave thanks for 
being delivered from the cholera and yellow fever and 
other terrible plagues ; but I suppose I am privileged to 
my opinion of a man who will put a girl’s picture 
between a danseuse and a race-horse, in his smoking 
room.” 

“ That is a libel ! ” cried Carrol Stuart, a younger son, 
“ for he always carries your picture in his vest-pocket.” 

Florence almost sprang from her chair ; the climax 
was reached ; her face was full of misery and impatience. 
“ His pocket ! ” she groaned. “ If there is any thing more 


13 


At a Breakfast Table . 

horrible than being between a ballet dancer and race- 
horse, it is to be in a man’s pocket — and a vest-pocket 
too ! I never heard of a more humiliating situation.” She 
could have cried she was so angry. 

“ Let us change the subject,” said Lady Davenport, 
“ or I fear Florence may die of apoplexy.” Lady Daven- 
port always recovered her good humor when some one 
else lost theirs. 

“ Did you go to Philip Arnold’s wedding ? ” Florence 
asked quite naturally, turning quietly to Percy Garritson ; 
her moods changed with wonderful rapidity ; she was 
always the first to recover herself after a gale of this 
kind. 

“ I am sorry to say I did,” Percy answered slowly, 

“Why?” asked lone Travers, a girl who always 
desired a word or two more to every story. 

“ Because so many unkind things were said about the 
men who were there,” he added frankly. 

il It was quite natural,” said Captain Rogers. “ Philip 
Arnold was a great favorite with us all.” 

“ How logical ! ” sneered lone. 

“ Perfectly true,” answered Percy ; “ have you never 
understood why there was so much unnecessary drinking 
at weddings ? ” 

“ Never,” they all exclaimed. “ Do tell us ! ” 

Percy looked startled ; he hardly expected to excite so 
much sudden interest. “ I will try, but it’s an awful 
work to— to — excuse a man’s weakness in the eyes of 
such a lot of girls,” he said, lazily gathering himself 
together to begin. “ You see, a man goes to the wedding 
of his best friend, perhaps, only friend ; he may be going 
to marry the loveliest among women ; she may improve 
his disposition, cultivate his mind, elevate his whole char- 
acter, but he will never be the bon comrade of by-gone 


H 


A Moral Sinner . 


years. You are perfectly aware of that, you are gloomy ; 
have you not a right to be ? He has been your friend 
since you were at college together, but now — no matter 
what that sweet girl, his wife, may say about being 1 just 
the same as ever ’, it won’t be ; it is all changed. He is 
married ; and you go and drink a great deal, not because 
you are thirsty or to celebrate your beloved Damon’s 
happiness, but to sink, to forget, to drown your own 
selfish misery, at the loss of one more friend.” 

“ It is all true,” exclaimed the captain, “ every word of 
it.” He rose and offered Percy his cigar-case. “ But, 
my boy, you can’t make women believe it,” he added in 
a lower tone. “ No woman will ever look upon getting 
drunk as a token of affection.” 

Lady Davenport, seeing what a gloom had fallen 
among them, led the way to her morning garden, and 
they, doing as was expected of them, followed her in 
congenial couples. 

And there they remained, until it was time to don their 
traveling regimentals ; for in a few hours they were to 
start on their long expected journey, which was to be 
quite an ideal affair. 

. Lady Davenport, a lovely old lady, altogether too 
good for this world and its selfish inhabitants, had con- 
ceived a new way of amusing herself. She had invited 
a number of young people to spend a fortnight with her. 
No one knew what she intended doing for their pleasure, 
except that they were going somewhere on coaches ; but 
they had such implicit trust in her ability for entertain- 
ing, that all went on their unknown way rejoicing. 

With the exception of Florence Andrews, the little 
American savage, as she was called by some unpleasant 
people whom she had not happened to please, they were 
all nice, sweet, gentle girls, of eminently respectable 


At a Breakfast Table. 


5 


parents. There were the two Langdon sisters, who dabbled 
in art ; Miss How, a mild, inoffensive spinster ; Lady 
lone Travers, a manly young woman j manly, you under- 
stand, not mannish — there is a beautiful and subtle differ- 
ence. 

But why describe these people ? you have met them 
all before. In presenting the dramatis personae of a 
story, it reminds one of a pharmacy, where the jars are 
all labeled, Opodeldoc — Ipecacuanha — Calomel — Capsi- 
cum, etc., etc. What an insight we would hav.e into the 
varied characters of our friends, if certain chemical epi- 
thets were tacked on to the end of their names ! For 
example, that disagreeably-particular-housewife, Carbolic 
Acid ; the wicked French governess, Aqua Toffana ; the 
flippant young man, somebody’s patented Florida Water; 
the old coquette, Sal Volatile ; and soon, and on, until we 
bring in every article in the shop, from Attar of Rose for 
the young debutante, to Bitters for her disappointed 
antediluvian aunt. Does it not seem that only a few 
were put here to live ; the remainder simply to fill up 
the gaps ? Do you not know fifty men the world would 
do as well without ? And perhaps an hundred women 
who have no share in making this earth better by .their 
silly thoughts, and sillier deeds ? But each man, of 
course, firmly believes he is one of the few intended to 
live. So Lady lone wears coats and vests, rides after 
the hounds, and is perfectly confident she could have 
done as well, if not better, than either Jeanne d’Arc or 
Charlotte Corday, if she had found herself in their try- 
ing positions. The two Langdons lower art and dese- 
crate music by decorating violins and banjos. 

Miss How in her old age had taken to literary pur- 
suits, and was proportionally stupid, whereas her sister, 
who was destitute of all laudable ambition, did nothing 


6 


A Moral Sinner . 


more than dress well, which, to some minds, is far more 
difficult than writing poetry or painting tea cups. 

But little Florence Andrews is the most charming of 
all. She is nothing, does nothing, never was, and never 
expects to be of any importance whatever ; just a sweet, 
lovable child, whose nanive worldliness and modern 
heathenism, mingled with her innate goodness, seemed a 
sort of open sesame to all hearts. 

In her whole life she had not been at school six weeks, 
but she had traveled nearly the world over, acquiring a 
remarkable familiarity with foreign tongues, and storing 
away in her youthful brain wonderful bits of learning, 
with which she would now and then surprise her friends. 

Her father was in Germany gathering matter together 
for his great work, “ Religion Contemporary with Adam, 
or Skepticism among the Pre- Adamites ” — a purely 
original theory of Professor Andrews, which had gradu- 
ally formed itself in his mind during the long and tedious 
illness which followed the extraction of a patriotic bul- 
let from his brain ; it is true the surgeon took out with 
it a morsel of gray matter, but the professor was built 
on a large American scale ; he could afford to lose much 
gray matter. 

Unlike most Americans abroad, he was not immensely 
rich, neither was he very poor, but in Agur’s blissful con- 
dition, which is so highly commended. 

Lady Davenport had met the Andrews two years before 
in Venice, and finding Florence very amusing, possess- 
ing also a sort of magnetic influence upon the sterner 
shareholders of the universe — a power which her lady- 
ship was, alas, rapidly losing — had offered to relieve the 
good old professor from the anxiety of so charming a 
daughter, and until Florence was properly disposed of, 
act the part of a mother ; which of us is more generous } 


At a Breakfast Table. 


17 


Now, of course, a man devoted to literature, and the up- 
digging of forgotten creeds, is not expected to be devoted 
to any thing else, even if he is a father ; so the profes- 
sor made Florence over to Lady Davenport, with an 
allowance sufficient for a young person blessed with a 
reasonable amount of good taste. 

“ Thank heaven,” Lady Davenport often said, “ no 
man will marry Florence for her money. We will escape 
that orthodox regiment of paupers, which usually follows 
an American girl round the entire continent.” 

These were the girls ; and the men ? They were all 
good-hearted fellows, in no way remarkable. Three 
were Englishmen, given to hunting, dancing and other 
gentlemanly pursuits ; two were Scotchmen of consider- 
able brain ; one Irishman, to bring in political discus- 
sions ; a German, to quarrel with the single Frenchman, 
who had been invited solely to quarrel with the German. 

“ We want,” said Lady Davenport, “ something more 
than English beef and mutton ; we crave spices, truffles, 
cayenne pepper ; men never go to sleep when they can 
fight over the world’s politics.” 

That was the party ; no one can be blamed for the 
bright effulgent star being missing. 


CHAPTER II. 


PROPINQUITY. 

Are you dreading this merry jog through the north of 
England ? If so, rest easy, you need not fear, you are 
not to be inflicted. A man who writes any thing of 
travel, flattering himself he can tell the world something 
new in this advanced day, when a school boy speaks 
carelessly of the long mysterious source of the Congo, 
or the possibility of reaching the unreachable north pole, 
is either a hopeless egotist, or has a grudge against 
humanity. 

This coaching party started out with the intention of 
having a good time, and, strange to say, they realized 
their anticipations. 

They traveled many miles, stopping each night at some 
pleasant old farm-house or half-forgotten inn, famous 
perhaps long ago, both in history and romance. In all 
pleasant particulars, this journey was intended to resem- 
ble one an hundred years before ; and attending hunts 
and races, going to country fairs, delighting in the most 
innocent shows, glorying even in the little discomforts, 
they soon felt they were really living in the reign of a 
George, and such things as railroads and other disagree- 
able improvements did not exist. 

As Lady Davenport had taken much care in planning 
and arranging her little tour, every thing went smoothly ; 


Propinquity . 19 

she had friends in all the towns through which they 
passed who were delighted to entertain them, giving din- 
ners and luncheons, and paying them other orthodoxical 
compliments. 

But at last the fortnight was over, and the good lady, 
hating to lose her young friends, proposed the remainder 
of the month should be spent in an old French sea-town, 
renowned for 'its fine roads and facilities for yachting. 
And although they pretended to have any number of 
engagements elsewhere, they threw them over one and 
all, and clung like the tribes of Israel together. 

It was rather late in the season, but this old French 
sea-town was always gay, always happy and noisy, as quite 
a body of troops was garrisoned there. And it was such 
a comfort to get to some quiet resting spot, where they 
could sit calmly down and smoke after dinner ; where they 
could change their heavy walking-shoes for high-heeled 
slippers ; where they could retire to rest without the 
sickening dread of being called at an unearthly hour the 
next morning. 

Several engagements had been the result of this daily 
intercourse. Propinquity is a slow but almost certain 
triumphant power. 

The stalwart lone Travers had been persuaded by 
Captain Rogers, that to munch marrons glacis was quite 
as manly as to puff cigarettes ; and that a man is much 
more gratified at being allowed to protect and care for 
the woman he admires, than to have her the most perfect 
of Amazons in courage and independence. And she, in 
her turn, corrected the captain’s former ideas on many 
subjects ; discussed with him the sagacity of Sparta ; 
how wisely she reared her maidens, educating them the 
same as men ; even encouraging them to wrestle in the 
public gymnasiums. Lady lone, like every one else, had 


20 


A Moral Sinner . 


her weaknesses, and “ female education, or the women 
of Sparta ” was the most cherished ; for years she had 
been studying the topic, and now contemplated giving 
her ideas to the public. So if she relinquished smoking 
(which she knew assisted mental digestion, and kept her 
thin), to please Captain Rogers, he listened patiently, and 
finally believed that a wife should train herself to be her 
husband’s equal in physical endurance as well as intel- 
lectual activity. 

The Langdon duo had conscientiously visited every 
picturesque spot they even neared on their route, and 
sometimes delayed the journey onward an hour or two, 
merely to admire a dry well referred to by a poet, or an 
empty cavern known to history, which the others in their 
awful indifference were too indolent to take a few steps 
to behold. 

The sisters had won the hearts of the Frenchman and 
German ; and to see these deadly enemies standing 
rapt before a broken bit of masonry covered with dusty 
old ivy, mingling their sighs and exclamations of delight, 
was a startling proof of the softening and unlimited 
power of Eros. 

Miss How had collected notes for her yearly attack of 
“ Spring Garlands ”, and had procured such a superfluity 
that young Palmer was persuaded to commence a serial, 

“ A jaunt through the Shetland Isles ” ; it is true they 
had not been to the Shetland Isles, but he had a grand- 
father who once lived there, and then it sounded so much I 
more interesting — a trifling geographical license, quite 
admissible in the phosphorescent literature of to-day. 
It was to be under Miss How’s supervision ; experience] 
and influence are so important in this day of many 
authors. 

About a week after their arrival in this harbor of 


Propinquity . 


21 


valor and repose a grand military fete was to occur. 
During the afternoon a sort of bazar or garden party, 
finishing in the evening with a cotillon. Every one was 
in a wild state of excitement. Not that there was any 
reason for so being, except that the human capacity “ to 
enjoy ” is peculiarly erratic ; for often what is sneered at 
when at home, is hailed with delight when abroad. 

Before starting, Lady Davenport had warned them to 
be prepared for emergencies ; so every man brought his 
galoches, and his opera-hat, and sundry articles between ; 
as usual, the girls did likewise. 

So all were ready for the coming event. lone brought 
out her crimson skirts and top-coat of black velvet, in 
which she thought she resembled Diana Vernon ; the 
Langdon girls wore the inevitable simple white ; and 
Miss How again donned juvenility. 

As the preparations for an occasion are always stupid, 
we will have nothing to do with them ; sufficient it is to 
know, that the ball-room was a bower of uncut roses and 
overgrown exotics, every thing else being equally lovely 
and unique. 

All too were in excellent spirits, as they were neither 
too old nor too young to appreciate a dance. 

The young ladies had one and each received floral 
tokens of regard, and Florence, particularly, was in a 
rare state of beatitude, having twelve bouquets, when 
none of the others had gotten more than three. 

“ It is all owing,” she told Lady Davenport confiden- 
tially, “ to my being so polite to those silly military boys 
for three whole hours last evening.” 

“ But what is the pleasure of having so many flowers 
withering in your room?” expostulated Lady Davenport. 
“ You can hardly wear them all.” 

Florence looked quite serious. tf Of course it is rather 


22 


A Moral Sinner . 


sad to see them dying there on the dressing table,” she ad- 
mitted slowly, “ but oh ! it is such a satisfaction to get more 
roses than any other girl ! ” she went on hurriedly. “ Now, 
dear Lady Davenport, I do not suppose you can under- 
stand such littleness ? But when the youngest How girl 
told me at luncheon that she had received three large 
bouquets, and then asked me if I had been equally 
fortunate, saying it too in that mild superior English 
fashion that I loathe, imagine the glory I felt to be 
able to tell her I had received twelve. Oh, dear one, it 
was such a triumph, after the way she has tried to snub 
me ! Three bouquets ! ” she repeated gleefully, throwing 
herself on a lounge and laughing merrily, innocent, how- 
ever, of any malice in her amusement. “ Three bou- 
quets ! and she thought I would die of envy ! And one, 
Lady Davenport, was from her own brother. Just think 
how sorry he must have been for her ! I don’t suppose 
she usually gets any, and he felt that would rather reflect 
on the family.” 

“ Dear child ! ” exclaimed her good friend, “ how can 
you say such unkind things ? It grieves me terribly to 
hear you talk in this unladylike manner : surely you 
enjoy the flowers for no such petty reason as that ? ” 

“ Honest true I do,” she answered slowly, with both 
penitence and humility, “though I’m awfully sorry if it 
grieves you ; but I solemnly affirm, I would rather have 
flowers for other girls to see than any other reason ; for 
the selfish gratification of merely gazing at their loveli- 
ness, and inhaling their perfume, I would not shorten 
their lives one instant. There ! is not that a noble sen- 
timent?” she asked, going toward Lady Davenport, and 
slipping her arm fondly around the old lady’s neck. 

“ Perhaps so,” she sighed. Florence was often a mys- 
tery ; if she had these very peculiar weaknesses, why 


Propinquity . 23 

was it necessary she should tell of them ? Her ladyship 
never published her faults for her friends’ edification. 

“ Come, my best loved, don’t think me very unkind,” 
the girl begged entreatingly, “ it is human nature, that 
is my only excuse; ” she was quiteashamed now of her hon- 
esty. “ Lady Davenport, why did Napoleon wish to make 
himself master of all Italy and all Egypt and all every 
thing else? Was it love for the Italians ? or admiration for 
the Pyramids? No indeed, it was because he gloried in 
exciting envy, hatred and malice in the hearts of other 
kings. And so you see if Miss How had received twelve 
bouquets, I should not have been satisfied with less than 
twenty-four.” Florence rose to leave her. “ Good-by, 
now you know just how depraved I am.” 

“ Good-by,” she answered sadly, “ I fear I shall never, 
never understand you Americans.” And Florence, see- 
ing her cast a longing, lingering look at one of Balzac’s 
novels, went away to join the others. 


CHAPTER III. 


AT THE F£TE. 

None of these good people were of the kind to affect 
afternoon assemblies, which are sure to be too warm or 
too cold ; so the garden party was fated to pass by 
unaugmented in brilliancy but by two of our friends ; and 
even their presence at that scene of festivity was an 
apparent accident. 

Florence, blessed with that extraordinary energy which 
seems to characterize American girls, and having that 
keen appreciation of pleasure, thought it would certainly 
be criminal to allow an afternoon fete , given by military 
officers, to slip by without availing herself of the rare 
opportunity. In secret she confessed this to Percy Gar- 
ritson, who, like a docile and obedient power, arranged 
that she should go, although it took some thought and 
much diplomacy. 

“ You see, Florence," he said, “ it’s no use to try and 
get Lady Davenport to go ; I heard her call it a ‘ picnic', 
that means no go on her part." 

“ But it is not a picnic," exclaimed Florence. “ Imagine 
me wishing to go to a picnic ! It is a beautiful fete 
champHre ; you might persuade her just to take me 
there." 

“ Well, to tell you the truth," his lordship answered 
slowly, “ I did broach the subject, but she deliberately 
yawned, and told me she was too sleepy to even think of 


At the FHe. 


25 


it. Now, Florence, you know when Lady Davenport is 
‘ sleepy ’, or ‘ ill ’, it means there is something on hand she 
had made up her imperial mind not to attend.” Percy 
had made Lady Davenport a study. 

“ Then, of course, I can not go. There is not another 
chaperon within ten miles, I suppose. Oh, dear, I do 
wish we were in America ; there the girls are so nice and 
respectable and well brought up, that guardians are only 
required on the most dangerous occasions.” 

“ Well, it is only for the looks of the thing,” said Percy 
mildly, not resenting in the least this reflection upon the 
respectability of his own countrywomen, “ there’s no 

harm in going without one I’ve got it ! Go and 

ask Lady Davenport if you may ride with me this after- 
noon ; she can not object to that ; and then you know 
we will drop in there on our way home, and — ” But 
Florence had already disappeared ; three short words 
had developed in her mind the entire scheme of decep- 
tion. And now you know by what horrible and wicked 
means two of the party visited the fete. 

At about half after four these two deceitful young 
people might have been seen slowly approaching the 
festive gathering. They had ridden far and fast for an 
hour, and had now decided it was time to “ drop in ” on 
their way home. 

And what a triumphant entrt it was. Florence had 
scarcely descended from her horse before she was sur- 
rounded by that not unusual crowd of masculine humanity 
who, between the ages of seventeen and three and 
twenty, are brilliantly stupid, and hopelessly unconscious 
of it ; who seem to possess a sort of mushroomic tendency 
to sprout wherever a pretty girl puts her foot. Poor 
pretty girl ! if with her beauty she happens to have 
brains or common sense ! But some women are kind, 


26 


A Moral Sinner. 


self-sacrificing, and forgiving ; they believe their mission 
in life is to be amiable, diplomatic, and long-suffering ; 
they are blessed with the ability for concealing their 
disgust for this noble throng of male admirers ; and 
while these innocent victims are being put through a 
course of mental pommeling, the willful maiden appears 
to be enjoying this idle talk so thoroughly, and looks so 
sweetly rapt with her companion, that she acquires with 
a trifling effort the reputation of being universally 
popular with the old and with the young ; for, if a boy of 
seventeen is hard to entertain, at the* venerable age of 
seventy it may yet be a more difficult task. 

Florence was good, beautiful, and wise ; she was 
young, and wished to be a success in society ; that she 
was willing to pay the penalty was evident from the 
number of hours she allowed herself to be bored. There 
are girls who do not think it pays, who even regard it as 
rather undignified, chacun a son gout. Florence was a 
success, that is enough. 

She was no ordinary girl ; with her other qualities, she 
had great forethought. When starting on her ride she 
knew in all probability she would idance before returning. 
This necessitated holding up her riding habit. Picture 
her now whirling in that oft-repeated maze, dressed in a 
dark-green habit, caught up and thrown over her arm, 
showing an exquisite petticoat beneath of crimson satin ; 
it belonged to her very best tea-gown ; any woman who 
might chance to look at it would at once grasp the con- 
trivance. But the men, no doubt, believed she was 
always equally extravagant, and that force of circum- 
stances alone betrayed the beauty of her petticoat. 

Her hat was the most picturesque sombrero, covered 
with light blue plumes, which bobbed and nodded in rhyth- 
mic sympathy ; and with her pretty American boots (her 


At the Fete . 


27 

pride, and her friends’ envy) and long white riding 
gloves she was a tableau vivant of no little interest. 

She danced and talked and flirted, with a great quan- 
tity of war-like paraphernalia, making Percy very miser- 
able by being so oblivious to his presence, and so happy 
too without him. He should have been content had he 
not brought her there. But at last his feelings got the 
better of his generosity, and stalking across the grounds, 
he deliberately carried her off from the adoring multi- 
tude, to the privacy of a quasi-dilapidated summer-house, 
a ruin in that pleasing and lovely state of decay attrac- 
tive to mortals deeply imbued with sentiment or affec- 
tion. 

There for a while he was happy as he watched from 
this safe distance, with a sort of fiendish glee, the dis- 
consolate men who were longing to dance with Florence. 

But this bliss was not fated to be of long duration ; 
his companion was evidently much bored, deigning him 
hardly a word, refusing even to admire the view, on which 
she resolutely turned her back ; seating herself on an 
old stone wall, she quietly contemplated the tips of her 
boots, until his sluggish conscience should reproach him 
for making such a martyr of her. 

After a few heart-rending sighs, which she in vain 
attempted to smother, that object was accomplished, and 
they proceeded to one of the many flower tables, where 
she immediately recovered her usual cheerfulness. 

Here they were both pleased, and here they remained 
just long enough for Percy to come to the conclusion 
that a “ flower stand ” was really the only thing necessary 
for the success of the fete, when some inconsiderate man 
catching sight of her, rushed up, claimed the next dance, 
and spoiled every thing. Percy, poor boy, was once more 
alone. 


28 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ Jove ! what a deucedly second-cut affair the whole 
thing is,” he groaned inwardly ; “ shouldn’t wonder a bit 
if we are going to have a shower, hope we do, it will serve 
these men right for giving such an atrocious get-up 
every thing looked dark to Percy, as Florence disappeared 
in the distance. 

Florence knew she should not have danced, knew she 
should not have come, knew every thing she had been 
doing was quite contrary to the rules of convenances ; so 
she was very gay, and talked a great deal so as not to 
allow herself to think about it. 

On her way, she met with a fresh supply of flowers. 
“ O, how lovely !” she exclaimed as they stopped to 
admire them. “ How I love flowers,” she said, turning 
to M. de Plas ; “ but do you know, they always make me 
feel — well — rathered wicked, they are like some people, 
so exalted, so innocent.” M. de Plas looked a little sur- 
prised, he had not followed readily this allusion to their 
mystical influence upon her ; but some one behind the 
palms, quite near, laughed softly to himself. 

“ There,” she added hastily, wishing to change the 
subject, “ those yellow daisies are my favorite flowers ; ” 
and now a little disgusted with M. de Plas’s non-appre- 
ciation, and very sorry for Percy, she begged to be 
excused a moment, while she went back to where the 
latter was standing hoping it would rain. 

“ Percy,” she said sweetly, laying her hand on his arm, 
“ to prove what a good friend I am, I am going to let 
you get me a bunch of yellow daisies, which have just 
this moment arrived. The best flowers came after you 
rushed off in that extremely rude manner when M. de 
Plas asked me to dance.” Percy had not the im- 
pression that he was the one to rush off ; but he was 
so accustomed to hearing how rude his jealousy 


At the FSte. 


29 

made him, that he never dreamed of disputing such a 
trifle. 

And to be able to do something for Florence’s pleasure 
was such a rare happiness for him, that when she returned 
to M. de Plas, he started off joyfully to procure the 
daisies. 

But, alas ! although only a few moments had elapsed, 
the longed-for bunch was gone. Who could have bought 
it ? This he could not discover. It was not M. de Plas, 
who was rather a parsimonious youth; from that he 
derived much satisfaction. 

But gone they were, nevertheless, and there was not 
another within ten miles. So he ordered, as a proof of 
his zeal, devotion, and regret, every thing that remained 
upon the flower-table to be sent to Miss Andrews at the 
hotel ; hoping that roses, lilies, violets-wild, and hot- 
house plants of many kinds, would in part make up for 
the beautiful but absent daisies. 

When prudence warned Florence it was time to leave 
she departed, saying good-by with little regret to those 
untried warriors ; in fact, the afternoon had not been 
quite as pleasant as she expected ; and she made Percy 
live for hours in a state of ecstasy by telling him frankly 
the ride there and back “ was the nicest part of it all 

Lady Davenport, of course; was at once told how they 
happened in at the fete ; they had been riding out, as she 
knew, when passing the grounds, they looked so pretty, 
and every one seemed to be having such a good time, 
they just for a moment went in ; they stayed longer than 
a moment, they supposed ; yes — Florence had danced 
once or twice, but they were only boys ; and then every 
body knew she was an American, she was not expected 
to be as highly civilized as English girls ; it was only an 
innocent little lark, you know. 


30 


A Moral Sinner. 


Lady Davenport thought she did know, and under- 
stood it all, which was quite as satisfactory to every one 
concerned. 

Oh, ye forgotten misrepresentations ! whom will ye 
surprise on that great day of reckoning ? 

“ Florence,” Lady Davenport said, as she was going 
away to dress, “ here are a quantity of flowers which 
came a few moments since,” and she drew aside a cur- 
tain and pointed to a table out on the balcony covered 
with flowers. 

“ How like you these are ! ” she added, taking up a 
bunch of yellow daisies; “ some one who is very fond of 
you must have sent you these.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Florence, carelessly. 

“ And there was no card with any of them,” continued 
Lady Davenport. 

“ But I know it was Percy,” replied Florence, “ I 
asked him to get them for me ; and I am going to carry 
them to-night ; not because they are his, but I like them 
best ; and none of the other girls will have any like 
them,” she added, gazing at them fondly. 

“ Dear child, you are not romantic,” laughed Lady 
Davenport, “ but no doubt you are happier ; sentiment 
and heart-breaks are only amusing in other people’s 
lives ; and a woman in real' life with a lover is as unin- 
teresting as she is without one in a novel. Dear Flor- 
ence,” she went on more plaintively, “ the world calls 
me a happy woman, but my clothes are the only things 
which have not proved disappointments.” She sighed 
once more, kissed Florence, and went away, leaving the 
girl still lingering among the flowers out on the balcony. 


CHAPTER IV. 


CLARENCE THORNBERRY. 

While yet quite early at the ball that evening one would 
have noticed, if they could have gotten beyond that 
stumbling block ego, a man leaning indolently against 
an old bronze figure of Pan, placed near the lower 
entrance of the room. He was unusually tall, but his 
perfect physique prevented his having that disagreeable 
lankness of appearance which so often gives us the 
impression that a man must be a greater stranger to his 
own boots and shoes than anyone else, and his brain is 
in no way responsible for the behavior of any thing so 
remote as his heels. 

Although perfectly orthodox in the fashion of his 
apparel and the cut of his hair, he at once struck the 
observer as belonging to rather a remarkable type of 
manhood, notwithstanding every feature had that unmis- 
takable stamp of English aristocracy. Had his expres- 
sion been closely noted,, as he watched that frivolous 
throng of humanity which filled the rooms, it would have 
been but too evident that he could be both unpleasantly 
arrogant and unnecessarily cynical. But do not be 
prejudiced ; most of us are apt to be arrogant, and cynical 
too, when we are in a crowd. Together with his strong 
muscular English frame, and finely cut head, which was 
placed magnificently on his shoulders, there was some- 
thing very Southern in the half-closed, half-amused look 


32 


A Moral Sinner . 


in his eyes, and the languid way he leaned against the 
bronze — a laziness almost, which, had it not been natural, 
would have been exasperating. 

Suddenly he discovered Lady Davenport alone on the 
other side of the room, and although he did not hasten — 
some people never seem to move rapidly — he soon reached 
her side. 

“ Good evening, Lady Davenport,” he said, in a rich, 
mellow voice, “ I have been looking for you for the last 
half hour.” 

“ Why, Lord Thornberry ! ” she exclaimed, much sur- 
prised. “ We feared you had already commenced your 
career in another world. I am very, very glad to see it 
is not so.” 

“ Thank you very much. I am rejoiced it was not an 
unpleasant disappointment. Are all your party here ? ” 
he asked, anxiously. 

“ All without an exception, I believe,” she answered, 
lightly ; “ but what brought you to such an out-of-the- 
world place ? ” 

“ I have a brother living here — Howard ; do you re- 
member him ? ” 

Lady Davenport smiled incredulously, “ I had no 
idea fraternal affection could bring you so far from 
home.” 

He laughed good-naturedly. “ How you jump at con- 
clusions, Lady Davenport,” he said. “ I was about to add 
my brother has for some time been on the verge of Cath- 
olicism, and now has not only gone over, but has joined 
some order of priesthood : we feel dreadfully about it. 
But what good does it do ? ” 

“ Feel dreadfully ? I should think you would ! ” 
exclaimed Lady Davenport, bristling all over with 
expectant indignation. “ Changing your creed is bad 


Clarence Thornberry. 33 

enough— it is like ge tting your passport made out for 
traveling in foreign lands, or getting a card of admis- 
sion to a new clique in society, when you are tired of 
your own set — but becoming a priest is suicide ; I 
would rather have buried him. What did induce him 
to?” 

“ That is a mystery to all of us, for he is neither insane 
nor suffering from unrequited affection,” Lord Thorn- 
berry answered, slowly. 

“ But what has your brother’s strange performances to 
do with your being at this ball ? ” she inquired, after a 
moment’s pause. 

“ He was not satisfied with throwing himself away,” 
continued Thornberry, while his eyes wandered restlessly 
up and down the hall, in an apparently vain search for 
some one, “ but he must waste his patrimony on an old 
castle up here on the hills, which he turned into a monas- 
tery ; and ’pon my word, Lady Davenport, it is the most 
picturesque and original building you can conceive of,” 
he added, with considerable enthusiasm. 

“ And are you following in his footsteps, converted by 
the architectural beauties of this pious retreat ? ” asked 
she, a trifle pettishly, perhaps. Lady Davenport hated 
to have the point of a story so long delayed. “ It is 
quite a unique plan of conversion.” 

“ Your ridicule is unkind,” he replied. “ Howard is 
really a very good man, and my worldliness is only more 
flagrant beside his piety ; even his holy abode I utilize in 
a frivolous manner. Some one kindly informed my 
worthy parents that the air here was invigorating, so I 
have been obliged to submit to a short religious sojourn 
with my brother, and you can not imagine how meek and 
lowly I have grown, living among these saintly men. 

I am wildly excited by this evening’s gayety, the first 


34 


A Moral Sinner . 


I have indulged in for months ; dear friend, you might 
well envy me, I am experiencing a new sensation. I 
would not have believed myself capable of enjoying a 
cotillon.” 

She looked at him a minute in a calm, serious manner, 
out of the tops of her eyes ; she knew him too well to 
believe what he said. “ Clarence Thornberry,” she 
exclaimed at length, “ you came here this evening for 
something beside the cotillon ; now what wasit ? ” 

“ You flatter me,” he answered, “ but you have guessed 
the truth ; I came for something beside the dance, I came 
to be introduced to Miss Andrews ; I saw her this after- 
noon. What a pretty child she is ! ” 

“ Yes, she is pretty, and wise too; but be careful, 
when you meet her, I warn you ! She is not fond of you,” 
Lady Davenport said, slowly. 

“ Has she not yet forgiven me that little sin ? ” he 
asked impatiently. 

“ I fear not ; she is very willful — so different from our 
sweet English girls,” and she sighed deeply ; “ but I am 
glad of it,” she added, after a pause, thinking, no doubt, 
how often those “ sweet English girls ” had bored her. 

“ There she goes on the other side of those palms,” 
Clarence suddenly interrupted. “ Let us go to her at 
once, or she may feel my hateful presence and escape,” 
he added, laughing again, thinking there was little dan- 
ger. He had wished to know her for the last two years, 
and now in five minutes that desire would be gratified. 
It was so near at hand he could afford to laugh now. A 
ball-room introduction is not an unusual occurrence, so 
Lady Davenport and he crossed the room with both 
haste and dignity, to where Florence and Percy had dis- 
appeared behind the palms. 

It was a very pretty picture, that they caught a glimpse 


Clarence Thornberry. 35 

of through the leaves. Florence was standing so that the 
palms almost embraced her, with their long leafy arms ; 
she wore a violet satin gown of the most delicate color- 
ing ; her lovely little wicked head was thrown back, and 
her great blue eyes, quite solemn at that moment, were 
watching Percy, as he leaned very near above her. Had 
they but known it, they were looking on a tender scene ; 
had they but been nearer, they would have heard Percy 
pleading earnestly that this hard-hearted maiden should 
care for him just a little. “ Florence, you shall not find 
it hard,” he said, “ tell me, dear one, you will love me by 
and by ; ” he took her two hands in his. “ After I see 
your father and get his consent, you will promise to care 
for me then ? ” 

“ But you won’t get his consent,” sighed Florence ; 
“ he will tell you your head is not well shaped, or he does 
not believe you have nobility of soul enough to compre- 
hend his Pre-Adamite Atheism.” 

“ But if I prove to him that the very jelly-fish were 
skeptics, that the mollusks repudiated the religion of 
their fathers in the year nine million before Adam, and 
embraced the enlightened views of the oyster ; then, 
Florence ” 

“ Percy, dear, do not ridicule my poor old father’s 
foibles,” she said, softly ; “ and oh, do not ask me to care 
for you yet, Percy,” she begged plaintively. 

“ But how can I help it ? ” he asked, despairingly, “ I 
have always loved you, and I always shall.” 

“ You think so now,” she answered, smiling up at him, 
“ but when you wake to-morrow morning, how will it be ? 
The sunlight will come pouring in at your window ; 
visions of rolls and coffee will float before you. You will 
wonder if your cigars will last a fortnight longer, and if 
there is a decent barber within ten miles. Then you will 


3 6 


A Moral Sinner. 


say : ‘ What a fool I was last night ! and that girl, who 

prides herself on her common sense was not much 
better 

“ What supreme nonsense you are talking ! ” he 
exclaimed, angrily ; “ you stole that entire paragraph 
from one of your favorite romances ; if you did not, your 
ideas on the subject are at least dyspeptic. No, Florence, 
when I see the sunlight to-morrow, and you are not 
mine, it will not be bright to me. When I go back to my 
own home, I shall be lonely, I will feel I would gladly 
give it all for the one thing you deny me. Florence, is 
it so difficult to' like me ? ” he asked, sadly. 

“ Well, no, Percy, I don’t think it would be very 
difficult.” 

“ Then,” he cried rapturously, “if your father consents, 

I may consider you are engaged to me ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Florence, very soberly now, “ on one 
condition.” 

“And that ?” asked Percy, laughing for very joy. 

“ If I meet anyone I care for more than you, Percy, 
before we are married — of course, after that it would be 
of no use,” and she sighed as if marriage was a hard 
trial, “ you will not think me cruel if I should break our 
engagement ; you see, dear Percy, I am not quite sure 
of myself, and am trying to be honest. Men are so 
unjust ; a girl tells a man candidly she does not care for 
him particularly ; but after a month’s engagement he 
believes she ought to be desperately in love with him, and 
he thinks her a perfect fiend if she honestly admits she 
likes some one else better.” 

“ What a melancholy dissertation on man’s ingrati- 
tude ! ” said Percy, looking at her mournfully. 

“ And very stupid too,” laughed Florence ; “ and now, 
Percy, you have held my hands quite long enough, 


Clarence Thornberry. 37 

I should like to dance,” and she drew her hands from 
him. 

“ Do not let us go back to that horrid crowd,” he said, 
beseechingly ; “ come out with me in the moonlight ; I 
feel as if I should die of very joy, although your father 
has not yet consented, and you do not yet love me as I 
would have you,” Percy said, half sadly. 

Here Lady Davenport pulled the branches aside, flat- 
tering herself that she had been very kind to allow 
Florence to recover from the fatigue of dancing ; for 
although she had seen Florence and Percy talking earn- 
estly, she never suspected how tender a dialogue was in 
progress. 

When Florence turned, she saw only Lady Davenport, 
who had come a few steps in advance. 

“ Florence dear,” she said, “ I wish to introduce you 
to some one, a very great friend of mine.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Florence ; “ who may it be ? I 
trust it is a man.” 

“ Yes, it is a man, and a very charming one too — Lord 
T hornberry ; ” and to be honest, Lady Davenport, as she 
mentioned his name, looked a trifle alarmed, and well she 
might be. 

Florence shot daggers of scorn, her dignity became 
transcendent. “ You know, Lady Davenport, it is quite 
useless to wish to introduce that man to me. I will 7iot 
know him,” and her voice shook with anger. 

There was a horrible silence. “ Percy, we will dance,” 
Florence said, at length, turning toward him. “ Lady Dav- 
enport, pardon us passing you,” she added with suppressed 
rage, sweeping by with the feelings of an injured Medea. 
As Florence disappeared, Clarence joined Lady Daven- 
port. As he had overheard the most of the conversation, 
he too was furious; a pleasant situation for her ladyship. 


33 


A Moral Sinner, 


“ This is child’s play,” he exclaimed impatiently ; “ the 
absurdity of that girl, who will allow a cub of a boy to 
stand ten minutes holding her hand, refusing to be pre- 
sented to a man, because two years ago he was so 
wicked as to take her picture from a photograph album,” 
and he laughed, but not merrily. “ You must train this 
little savage better, my dear Lady Davenport.” 

“ Alas ! ” she replied, “ I fear her early American asso- 
ciation will always be ruinous to her self-control.” 

“ Does she know any thing ? ” he asked carelessly, 
“ or has she only her pretty face ? ” The subject already 
wearied him, but then one must talk. 

“ My dear boy,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “ she 
knows every thing.” Lady Davenport was really very 
fond of Florence, and she also felt her remarkable behav- 
ior on the present occasion somehow reflected on her- 
self. “ She knows every thing,” she reiterated, “ from A. 
B.C. to psychology. She paints, she is a fine musician, 
and I assure you she speaks every European language 
from English to modern Latin.” She added with 
pride, “ Why she can even converse in half the dialects, 
Magyar — 

“ Magyar ! ” cried Clarence, interrupting her, “ does 
she know any thing about Magyar ? ” 

“ She speaks it as if she had never heard any 
thing else.” Lady Davenport was gratified at his sur- 
prise. 

“ Then, by Jove!” he exclaimed excitedly, “if she 
has the least heart whatever, she will do the most 
charitable of deeds, and know me at the same time 
within half an hour ;” he was more animated than he had 
been for years. 

Meanwhile Florence had rushed Percy through the 
ball-room. She was greatly incensed at Lady Daven- 


Clarence Thornberry . 39 

port wishing even to present Lord Thornberry to her ; 
for the entire bitterness of her nature seemed to be 
directed against him. And it all arose from the most 
trivial of misdemeanors. One day he had taken her pic- 
ture from an album he was looking through, at a recep- 
tion given by Lady lone ; he had taken it, he frankly 
admitted, because he was so irresistibly charmed by the 
lovely piquancy of her face. Soon after committing this 
theft, he had gone to Canada on a visit, so he had never 
yet met the owner of his stolen treasure. Unfortunately 
some malicious person had informed Florence that he 
had boasted of being able to get as many pictures as he 
desired of an American girl to whom he had not yet 
been introduced. Hence Florence’s ire. 

Have you ever noticed when we are very much offended 
with one person, how apt we are to be particularly kind 
to another ? So it was now with Florence. 

The next half hour was to Percy a perfect dream, 
she was so charming ; he poured forth his love to 
his heart’s content ; and what to a lover is greater bliss ? 

“ Dear Florence,” he murmured, “ only say you will 
some time care for me a little, and I shall be quite 
content.” 

“ I do already care a great deal for you, Percy ; look 
at these flowers,” and the wicked girl looked smilingly 
up in his face ; “ I chose to wear them of all I had. Are 
you not pleased ? ” 

“ No, I am not,” he answered bluntly, “ I did not 
send them,” and he regarded them with any thing but 
an approving gaze ; “ somebody else had that pleasure, I 
was too late.” 

“ You did not send them ! who could it have been 
then ? ” and Florence observed her bouquet with aug- 
mented interest ; “ it is too bad.” 


40 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ Did you think I sent them ? ” asked Percy, much com- 
forted. 

“ Of course I did, or why should I have carried them ? ’’ 
At this his state of mind was beatific. “ You sent the jac- 
queminot roses ? ” she continued. “ How I wish I had 
known it before.” Still she thought to herself, red roses 
with this gown would be atrocious. 

Just then a servant from the hotel made his appear- 
ance. “ A note, mademoiselle, for you,” he said, handing 
Florence a slip of paper. Going toward one of the gas 
jets, she opened it, and read — 

Dear madam: Accidentally hearing that you understand 
Magyar, I have taken the liberty to beg you to perform a 
most charitable action in behalf of one of your fellow- 
beings. There is a poor Hungarian peasant dying here — 
a Robert Plazty — who has sent for me to confess him ; 
unhappily 1 can not comprehend a word he utters. Think 
of the kindness you would be doing him, and the Church 
also, if you consent to be his interpreter. We have been in 
great difficulty for some hours past, as he seems to have 
many sins on his conscience. I regret so solemn a duty 
calls you from a scene of festivity, but it will only be for 
a short half hour. I trust you will not fear coming alone, 
as it is particularly desirous he should be disturbed as 
little as possible ; the bearer will wait to conduct you 
here.” 

“ But, Florence, you are not going ? ” exclaimed Percy. 
“What impertinence those old duffers are guilty of ! ” 

“ Of course I am going,” Florence answered. “ Which 
is of the more importance, this ball, or a man’s salva- 
tion ? ” 

“ That is very different. You know his salvation does 
not depend on you or this old priest,” said Percy, a 
little disdainfully. 


Clarence Thornberry . 41 

“ Well, he believes it does, so it amounts to the same 
thing. Suppose, Percy, he has done something very 
wrong, it will be a comfort to him, poor fellow, to im- 
agine he is forgiven.” 

“ Do as you like, but I shall go with you,” he said 
determinedly. 

“ Percy, I would so much rather you did not,” she 
replied slowly. 

“ But I insist upon going ; do you imagine I would 
trust you to a servant ? ” he asked. 

“ Very well then,” she answered hastily, “if you do go, 
when I so seriously object, I shall not dance with you 
again this evening ; I shall not even come back for the 
cotillon,” and she looked at him defiantly, knowing how 
much pleasure she was threatening to deprive him 
of. 

“ Well, what do you wish me to do ? ” he asked dog- 
gedly ; “ I know I am a fool to give in, but I always have, 
and suppose I always will.” 

“ That’s a dear good boy ! ” she cried, putting her hand 
caressingly in his ; “ go and explain it all to Lady Daven- 
port ; you know exactly how to put it. It is only a step, 
and I really would prefer going alone ; and when I come 
back, you will find me nicer than ever.” 

After a few more tender expostulations, which were of 
not the least avail, he did as he was bid ; making her 
solemnly promise, however, that she would surely return, 
return too, in time to choose their seats for the cotillon, 
and not allow any silly sentiment to keep her from coming 
back. It was only a Hungarian peasant, after all ; when 
she had dispatched him into the next world, she would 
rejoin them in the German, which was certainly a pleas- 
anter occupation. 


CHAPTER V. 


A STRANGE PROCEEDING. 

Along the dark avenue, darker for the brilliancy she had 
left, Florence sped on her way. 

There was a strong fascination about the whole affair. 
Being called from a ball, and her lover, to a poor peas- 
ant, who in the soft caressing Magyar would confess his 
sins, seemed to her the very essence of poetry and 
romance. It was so unusual, so out of the ordinary, that 
it delighted her, and for the moment she forgot it was 
connected so closely with death. 

His name is Robert Plazty, she thought ; it does not 
sound very wicked ; perhaps he is a Nihilist ; and she 
thereupon built up a series of crimes worthy of the very 
lowest circle in the Inferno. 

She had come without her wrap, had left even her lace 
bournous with Percy ; just as she had gone from the 
dancing-room at the end of the last waltz, she went to 
this unknown death bed. 

Upon the many stairs she climbed, up and up, at last 
fearing there would be no end, until she finally reached 
the topmost story. 

She looked at her daisies, which she still carried, and 
wondered who could have sent them. The mystery had 
naturally doubled their value. “ They must have 
come from some one who is very fond of you,” Lady 
Davenport had said. No one was fond of her in that way 


43 


A Strange Proceeding. 

but Percy, in this part of the world ; who then could it 
be ? And wondering still, at last she reached a wretched 
little room. A priest stood at the open door, whose 
decrepit hinges groaned with age, or thirst, perhaps, for 
a few drops of oil, as it closed upon her when she en- 
tered. 

“ Dear lady,” the holy father murmured, “ you are 
truly good to come so quickly ; forgive me,” and he 
bowed low, “ for doubting your noble generosity, when 
my brother told me you would gladly make the sacri- 
fice. Brother, she is as divine as you have said ”— he 
turned toward the bed as he spoke. 

Florence looked across it ; she could discern nothing 
in the somber light but the outline of an indistinct form, 
leaning against the chimney piece. 

“ The admiring brother is another old idiot of a priest, 
I suppose,” she thought. “ Good heavens ! they pity 
priests for not having family ties ; what a mistake when 
they call half the men they meet ‘ brother ’ ; ” and her 
nervousness almost made her laugh aloud, as she 
thought of a man with a wife, and one puny infant, feel- 
ing sympathy for a lonely priest, who had perhaps 7,000 
brothers. While this voluble young priest continued his 
harangue, the most wildly absurd ideas rushed through 
her brain. 

Did this holy brother admire her violet satin gown ? 
Would it surprise him much to inquire if he had ever 
had a love affair ? And what would he do, if she should 
insist on dancing an Indian war-dance, telling him it was 
their national remedy for all diseases, moral and physi- 
cal ! 

Suppose she should break out in the Marseillaise, or 
an air from some opera bouffe ! How foolish she had 
been, not to let Percy come with her ! It was so cold up 


44 


A Moral Sinner. 


here, and so strange, alone with these three men ! She 
had an intense desire to laugh, and a more intense one to 
cry. Why did not the other brother interrupt this dis- 
sertation on her generosity ? 

“Dear madam,” he was still talking, “the Church 
will appreciate your sacrifice in coming here to night.” 

“Well I don’t think much of the Church,” she cried in 
desperation, hoping to stop his endless thanks, “ if it 
believes it a sacrifice for a woman to give up a few 
waltzes to help a poor fellow creature to what he thinks 
is salvation.” Her indignant protest ended in a little sob. 
She was very frightened ; it was so damp, and dark, 
only a dim candle lighting the room, and a few dry 
sticks burning on the hearth. There was the smiling 
young priest ; there the shadow of the unseen brother : 
the dying man stretched on the dingy pallet ; the music 
of the ball still ringing in her ears. 

“ You are good, mademoiselle ; you know the import- 
ance of the confessional ?” he continued. 

“ No, I am not good,” she replied, “ and I don’t 
believe in confessions at all, but I want to help this poor 
man, if he is in trouble,” the sobs followed each other 
very rapidly now. She buried her face in her daisies ; 
they at least were her friends. 

“ Little one, do not be frightened,” she heard some 
one say, and looking up, she saw the brother bending 
over her. He was not a priest ; her heart was filled 
with gratitude ; he was human ; worldly perhaps, like 
herself. Oh, the relief of that discovery ! She felt his 
unspoken sympathy had made her strong. 

The sick man groaned. “ You will pray for him, that 
is all,” he said kindly, “ poor fellow, he can not live now, 
much longer.” 

She did not reply, but went quickly to the bed. She 


A Strange Proceeding .* 45 

was not at all a religious woman, as the world has it, 
and she had never seen anyone so near death before ; 
but she was very calm, and very quiet now. 

Bending toward him she said in Magyar, “ Robert, 
there is some one in heaven calling you, are you ready 
to go ?” 

“ Ready to go ? ” he murmured, “ I am only waiting, 
waiting until they will forgive me, and let me go.” Then 
catching sight of the priest, he poured forth a volley of 
misdeeds. He was young, he was lazy, he loved his 
master’s beautiful daughter ; he married her ; and they 
were very poor, so terribly poor.” The man shuddered 
with horror, as he recalled that time of suffering. 
“ Then she became ill,” he went on ; “ this drove me 
mad. I stole some jewels, very valuable ones ; and for 
a year we were rich, and oh ! great heavens, how 
happy ! and then — my beautiful angel discovered how I 
had gotten money, and— and — it killed her.” He tossed 
about on his couch ; his excruciating agony was fearful 
to witness ; he believed being kept in this world was his 
punishment. “ Will I never be forgiven ? ” he cried 
beseechingly. “ My angel in heaven, tell them how poor, 
how miserable we were ! This heartless priest will not 
listen to me ; he refuses his blessing, and we will never, 
never, see each other, or be happy again.” 

“ But he will bless you,” Florence interrupted ; “ he has 
not understood what you were saying.” The poor man 
turned as she spoke, and seeing her for the first time, 
seized her hand. “ She has sent you,” he exclaimed, “ to 
take me to her ; you have come to tell me I am forgiven. 
God is more merciful than man.” He fell back quite 
exhausted, but thoroughly content. 

The priest was very solemn, as he listened to Flor- 
ence’s explanation. He had fully expected the recital of 


46 


A Moral Sinner. 


a murder, or some horrible crime, which would require a 
long and painful confession. He was a young man, and 
had not sped many souls on their heavenward way as 
yet ; and when one gets one’s expectations up, even 
about terrible things, there is a sort of disappointment 
to find them falling so far short of our first idea. Still, 
perhaps it would be unjust to say this good man regret- 
ted not confessing a greater criminal ; for to steal a few 
jewels to procure bread for his wife is not so very 
wicked, considering how lenient the Church is toward 
the dying. 

“ Robert, you will be forgiven ; you will see your 
beautiful wife, if you are sorry you stole the jewels," 
said Florence softly, kneeling beside him. 

“ But I am not sorry,” he answered. “ I would steal 
them all again for that joyous year with her, my lost 
one ! ” 

At this there was great wrath on the part of the holy 
father. “ Can it be possible that there lives a man so 
depraved, that he would lose the blessed future for one 
year’s pleasure on this sinful earth ? ” he exclaimed 
vehemently ; it was beyond his comprehension ; he 
could not forgive without repentance. 

Florence translated his words as mildly as possible, 
but the dying man was still firm in his refusal. “ I am 
sure of that one year’s happiness,” he said wearily. 
“ What do I know of the future ? Who can tell me of it, 
for a certainty ? ” 

This incensed the pious man to that degree that he 
considered Robert lost without doubt. 

“Unless you repent for stealing a single morsel of 
bread to feed your dying wife, you are damned,” he 
cried indignantly. 

“ Then I am damned,” shouted the peasant, who had 


A Strange Proceeding. 47 

guessed the meaning of the words uttered by the angry 
priest, and his emphatic gestures of denial. Once more 
the blood went rushing madly through his veins ; he 
found strength to partly raise himself in his bed, and 
bending toward the confessor a look of mingled terror 
and defiance he continued : “ For her, I would steal the 
whole universe ! Did I not make her poor ? That was my 
only crime ; and for that, I would wish to suffer ; but 
to be able to make her happy, I would glory in the 
curse of Heaven.” Weak with the effort to justify 
himself, he fell back on the couch, hopeless as to for- 
giveness, in this world, at least. 

“ Good sir,” said Florence, going toward this stalwart 
son of the Church, “ be merciful, I beg, to this poor crea- 
ture; in a few moments he will die. The Church, you say, is 
generous ; be so lenient as to give him some hope of a 
happy future, without exacting* from him a repentance 
which would be a lie. Think how much easier it would 
be for him to comply with your demand ; to simply say 
‘ I am sorry I stole the jewels ’ ; than by his truthfulness 
to thus tempt, as you say, the wrath of Heaven.” 

“ He is the most depraved of sinners,” the priest 
replied. “ He rejects the mercy of God. I must, at least, 
do my duty.” 

“ I warn you, do not be too cruel,” said Florence, 
coldly, turning from him with unutterable scorn. 

“ His spirit must be subdued,” he muttered. “ No unre- 
pentant thief can ever enter the kingdom of heaven. Be 
so kind as to tell him this.” 

“I shall not,” she exclaimed, passionately. “ This heart- 
lessness is too much ; I refuse to repeat it to him.” She 
walked toward the door; the very atmosphere had 
become loathsome with this man’s bigotry. 

“ Then you, too, are cursed,” he cried after her. 


48 A Moral Sinner . 

“ For you have on your conscience an unredeemed 
soul.” 

“ Howard, Howard,” said the voice of the brother. He 
was about to say more, when the dying Hungarian, 
groaning painfully, lifted himself in his bed. “ Tell him, 
I am sorry,” he murmured hoarsely, “ if by that means 
I shall see my beloved one again ; ” and his eyes 
wandered pitifully from Florence to the priest. 

“ Have I come here only to add a lie to this man’s 
list of crimes ? ” she asked, mournfully, as she slowly came 
back into the room. “ You are wicked,” she cried, 
standing before the holy father ; “ so wicked that God 
must hate you for your indifference to this man’s suffer- 
ing ; you degrade your Church by this assumption to 
judge so brutally another’s faults. And I adjure you, 
as you wish some day to be at peace with your Creator, 
to pardon, in the name of your Church, that man his 
offenses, without this feigned repentance.” She was no 
longer a child, but a woman, bravely demanding justice. 
“ Let him go down to the grave with at least the hope 
which has been given us all as our birth-right.” 

He was completely astounded at this outburst from 
the child who had been so affected, a few moments 
before, merely by the sight of the wretched man ; and he 
was ashamed before her. 

“ As you say,” he replied, humbly, after a moment’s 
pause, “ perhaps it would be better. You may tell him 
the Holy Sacrament is prepared.” 

Florence turned to him again, and impulsively offered 
him both her hands. “ I thank you so much,” she said, 
gratefully. “ Forgive me, if I was rude ; but you are all 
a mistake ; you are trying so hard to be good that you 
make yourself very bad.” 

If it were possible, the good man was more surprised 


49 


A Strange Proceeding , . 

at this candor than he had been at her indignation. He 
was so astonished he was unable to reply, but turned, 
with a startled, imploring glance, to the corner, where the 
brother still leaned against the chimney-piece, and 
whence came just the suspicion of a laugh. Florence 
evidently expected no answer, for she went immediately 
to the bed side. With great difficulty she convinced the 
peasant that his sins were forgiven and the priest stood 
by to administer the Sacrament. 

The perfect peace which he acquired with it, proved 
that Heaven echoed at once, and joyfully, the tardy bless- 
ing of the priest. 

And now it soon must be over. Florence kneeled 
again to pray a last parting prayer for his soul. 

The two men stood aside, watching her, and watching 
the dying Hungarian ; they could not understand the 
soft exquisite words she said, but they saw the wonderful 
calm come over the peasant’s face ; the suffering, the 
anxiety faded away ; then his eyes closed slowly, and he 
was dead. 

But Florence was unconscious that they watched her. 
She little knew that never in her life had she been so 
beautiful as kneeling there beside that miserable bed, 
her ball-dress lying in heavy folds on the bare wooden 
floor, her head thrown back, her eyes seeking heaven 
through the dusty rafters above, still clasping her yellow 
daisies as if for strength in her difficult task. For once 
the “ silly, heartless little American ” forgot herself ; 
forgot this world and its selfish pleasures ; she was alone 
with the angels and the dead. But it was too much for 
her, her head fell on her hands, and for a moment she 
fainted. Suddenly she looked up. 

“ Come,” said the brother, gently, “ it is over. Poor 
little girl, you have suffered enough for another’s sake,” 


50 


A Moral Sinner . 


and raising her from the floor, he took her hand, and led 
her away. At the door, she turned to the priest. “ Good- 
by,” she said. “ God will bless you for making that poor 
man content at last.” 

Then she allowed herself to be led on, as if in a dream. 
All at once she found herself descending the rickety stair- 
case. 

The building was, in fact, in great danger of falling to 
pieces. It had been originally a granary, and was now 
converted into a lodging house. 

Florence had, naturally, never been there before, and 
as for her recollection of her coming this evening, it con- 
sisted mainly in climbing any number of similarly rickety 
stairways in going to the room she had just quitted. She 
was therefore entirely dependent upon her guide ; and it 
was with dread of crushing in the fragile flooring that 
she took every step. Have you not noticed that one’s 
weight always seems increased in old, time-worn build- 
ings ? 

It was not long before she also discovered that her 
hand was tightly clasped in that of her unknown friend. 
This was terrible ; but when she unfortunately stumbled 
over some spiteful nail, which had poked its head out of 
its hole to watch this very improper and unusual pro- 
ceeding, this man, this unknown, this mystery, put his 
arm deliberately around her to prevent her again falling. 
What should she do ? What should she say? Nothing, 
was her wise conclusion, or he would regard her as one 
of two horrible things — a prude, or a very foolish young 
woman. In fact, if she tried in any way to escape from 
this trying position, he would then be certain that she 
was conscious that his arm supported her. So she finally 
determined to appear blissfully ignorant of her surround- 
ings, although it was rather difficult, for, owing to the 


A Strange Proceeding . 51 

darkness, they went very slowly, and it promised to take 
a long time. 

Now, to be going down five flights of very old stairs, 
lighted here and there by the dimmest of tallow candles, 
with an unknown man’s arm about you, and your hand 
held tightly in his, is not an ordinary situation ; and all 
the horror of it struck Florence most forcibly. “ This is 
not a bit worse,” she tried to reason with herself, “than 
to dance with a perfect stranger in the cotillon.” But it 
was worse, or at least usage had not authorized it, and 
she fully appreciated that to be the case. 

“ If I could only think of something to say,” she 
thought. In her mind, she traveled from “ a charming 
night ” to grave questions on Catholicism ; one was 
ridiculous, the other much more so. She could imagine 
the cracks in the wall grinning at her embarrassment ; 
she could hear her little French slippers telling the stairs 
about it, and chuckling at her discomfiture. What 
could she say? “You haven’t an idea, you haven’t a 
thought worth uttering, and if you gave your very head, 
you couldn’t find one,” the very air seemed to cry. 
Suddenly her feelings got the better of her ; she turned 
to him saying : 

“ You are very kind, but, oh ! I would a great deal 
rather stumble than have you hold me so. I am sure it 
is not proper ; and — and you can not be very comfort- 
able.” She ended it in a little gasp. 

“ No, it is not proper,” he replied, placidly, “ but I am 
quite comfortable, thanks, so we will continue in the same 
way.” 

“ No, we will not,” she exclaimed, indignantly, and, 
wrenching herself from him, she did stumble in her burst 
of independence. 

There was a low, amused laugh above her ; she %as 


A Moral Sinner. 


52 

tenderly picked up, and they descended in the same 
manner as before. 

“ What a fool I was ! ” she groaned inwardly. “ How 
glad he must have been that I fell ; he actually laughed ; 
I wish I had hurt myself, then he would have been sorry 
for me ; if I could only say something brilliant to redeem 
my reputation.” Still racking her brain, they reached the 
doorway. 

Meanwhile, Clarence Thornberry — for of course he was 
the brother — was also hard at work to find something 
comforting to say. “ Poor little girl,” he thought, “ it 
has been too much for her ; she will not take part in the 
cotillon this night ; she is ready to burst into tears at 
any moment ; I trust she will not be ill. How beautiful 
she looked when she was praying ; she must have a great 
deal of sentiment ; perhaps this will prevent her from 
ever dancing again. ‘ Called from the ball to a death- 
bed.’ It is really tragical. I imagine she is now wander- 
ing with those two, Robert and ‘ his angel ’, in heaven.” 

Thus idealizing his companion, picturing her on her 
ethereal way with Robert and his beloved, when she 
turned to him and said quite cheerfully: “ I suppose all 
the good seats in the german are taken ? ” 

Alas ! she was not wandering in heaven, she was not 
sentimental. It was a fearful shock ; he fell to earth 
with a sickening sensation of disappointment. 

“ If we hasten, you will probably be able to procure 
one,” he answered, icily. 

“ Then let us hasten,” she said, “ for I am very anx- 
ious.” 

He groaned. It was not a heavy groan, hardly more 
than a sigh, but her delicate ear caught it, and from her 
lips came its echo. 

'•I knew you were not enjoying yourself,” she said. 


A Strange Proceeding. 53 

plaintively ; “ but I was not either. Don’t you think,” 
after a pause, she continued, “that purgatory must be 
built like a stairway, and the lower you go, the more 
frightful it is ? ” 

“ Gad ! ” he cried, and a long, ringing laugh floated 
off on the air. “ My ideal is shattered into bits ; five 
minutes more and I may be called Mephistopheles him- 
self. We are here, ma’moiselle,” he added. They had 
reached, by this time, the ball-room. “ My brother and 
I are most indebted for your kindness.” He bowed low 
to her, as if he anticipated being dismissed, 

“You have been very good to me,” Florence said, 
looking up at him wonderingly. She did not know 
exactly how to interpret his last remark. Giving him 
her hand, she went on, “ Will you do one thing more ? 
Will you wait here for a few moments ? I may come 
back ; I may want you.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, calmly, “ I will wait ; I understand 
perfectly ; you are fond of sherbet ? ” 

“ Very,” she answered. “ Good-by, then, for a short 
time.” 

“ Goodrby,” and he smiled bitterly as she left him to 
go to Lady Davenport, who was sitting near the door. 

“ Bah ! ” he murmured beneath his breath, “ I could 
have died for that girl, had she but been above a cotillon 
and sherbet for just this one night. What a fool a man 
feels when he sees his mistake ! ” and savagely attacking 
the strongest cigar he possessed, he strolled up and 
down. “ Waiting, confound it ! ” he growled to himself, 
« until that child requires a little sherbet to help her 
through the next waltz. Jove ! old man,” he exclaimed, 
violently apostrophizing himself, “ don’t be such an ass 
as to go in and dance also, if she should happen to 
request it.” He had entered on the third quarter of 


54 A Moral Sinner. 

his cigar, and his thoughts were taking a revengeful 
turn. 

Florence’s account to Lady Davenport of her adven- 
ture was not a long recital ; in five minutes she had 
described, in the most graphic manner, all she desired 
should be known of the little episode. One or two details 
she omitted ; it was hardly the time, hardly the place, to 
speak of the conflict between a dying man and a servant 
of God. But all that was necessary to tell, she told so 
well that Lady Davenport readily consented to her saying 
“ good-night ” when she begged to be allowed to go 
home. In truth she astonished Florence mightily by 
not demanding an immediate introduction to the “delight- 
ful brother ”, who was not a priest, and who had so 
kindly promised to await her return ; for, although she 
had fully expected a dissertation on the unconventional 
American girl, she had bravely told Lady Davenport 
how charming a part Clarence had played in the even- 
ing’s performance, little thinking that this “ interesting 
man ”, as she called the unknown, had given Lady Daven- 
port a glimpse of the romance before it had taken place. 

“ Go, my love,” she said to Florence, at parting ; “you 
must indeed be tired. Wrap yourself up warmly ; and 
tell your kind friend how heartily I thank him for his 
consideration, and that I trust very soon to have the 
pleasure of meeting him myself. You know, Florence, 
my dear,” she added, “ I should not let you go alone with 
him, except that it might hurt the priest’s feelings if we 
in any way seemed suspicious of him or his friend ; you 
understand, my child ?” 

“ Indeed I do,” exclaimed Florence, her mind greatly 
relieved ; consideration for the good father’s feelings 
did away with all impropriety. “ It is so delightful to be 
introduced by priests or ministers, for then the people 


A Strange Proceeding. 55 

are always sure to be respectable." Upon which sophistry 
Lady Davenport, a wise woman, smiled. 

At that moment Percy came rushing up. “ At last ! ” 
he cried. “ Well, did the gentleman leave on his heaven- 
ward way with his passport well made out ? ” 

“ Oh, Percy, hush ! you don’t know how dreadful it 
was," and Florence covered her face with her hands. 

“ My darling, forgive me," he exclaimed, all repent- 
ance. “ What a brute I am ! You will forgive me, 
won’t you ? I have been worrying so about you, and it 
was so miserable watching the door, that when I did see 
you I forgot every thing, except you had been carried 
off by a filthy old priest and his — his — patient ; will you 
excuse my nasty brutality ? " 

“Yes," sighed Florence, “ on one condition ; that you 
go directly, and ask Miss How to dance the ger- 
man.” 

“Oh, ye gods ! " groaned Percy. “ Ask Miss How to 
dance the german ! Who are you going to dance with ? " 
he asked, much hurt. 

“ I am going home." 

“ What nonsense,” he cried, angrily ; “ you shall not ; 
I will not allow it." 

“ Now, Percy, dear," said Florence, tenderly, slipping 
her hand through his arm and looking the look he could 
not resist, “ what you said just now made me feel very 
badly, but I will forgive you all, every word, and play 
lawn-tennis with you to-morrow morning, if you will do 
as I wish." 

“ Does Lady Davenport know you are going ? ” he 
asked, as a last hope. 

“ Yes." 

“ Then come, I will take you." 

“ No, Percy ; Miss How is all alone, and they have 


56 


A Moral Sinner. 


commenced long ago ; so good-night, dear ; I would 
much prefer you staid/' 

Poor Percy was furious. He had a way of getting 
furious that Florence found very unpleasant. He sup- 
posed one of her many warlike admirers was waiting to 
take her home, so both pique and anger prevented him 
from urging her further, and he marched off with much 
dignity. 

“ Good-night," cried she after him. “ Good-night 
again, Percy ; please miss me a trifle." 

This quite softened him. “ Good-night," he mur- 
mured. “ I am sorry you are so tired ; I trust I am for- 
given." 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE COTILLON. 

When Florence returned to the entrance of the ball- 
room, Clarence Thornberry was lazily leaning against 
the door, not even taking the trouble to watch the danc- 
ing ; he was still thinking — thinking of women and what 
fearful disappointments they usually proved. He had 
never met a woman whom he honestly admired, until this 
evening, and now she — was like the rest. It was a great 
bore to be obliged to wait there until this child wished 
to flirt with him. The noise they called music was fiend- 
ish, the men were snobs and the women ungainly. “ And 
am I expected to take part also in this childish pas- 
time ? ” he muttered, impatiently tapping the floor with 
his foot. 

“ Just then he heard a voice. “ I am ready now," it 
said, close beside him. 

“ Oh ! certainly — of course — yes — pardon me — ” he 
stammered, as he offered Florence his arm, rapidly 
marching her off to the supper-room. 

“ Why, where are you going ? ” she exclaimed, much 
bewildered. 

“ To get you some sherbet,” answered her escort. 

“ But I don’t want any sherbet,” said Florence. 

“ Well, what do you want ? ” he asked ; “ brandy and 
water ? ” 


A Moral Sinner. 


5S 


“ No.” 

“ You don’t want me to dance with you ? Perhaps to 
get you a good seat ? ” 

“ I want,” Florence said, with a sort of gasp, “ I want 
you to take me home.” 

Clarence stood transfixed. She wanted to go home ! 
What had happened ? 

“ Could you not find a place ? ” he kindly inquired. 

“ Yes, I had a lovely one saved for me.” 

“Well, had you no partner ? ” 

“ Yes, the best dancer here was my partner. Oh ! 
how can you be so cruel ! ” she broke out vehemently. 
“ Do you think I could be so heartless as to dance to- 
night ? I was anxious about a seat for Percy Garritson, 
because his enjoyment would be spoiled if he waited for 
me, and I wanted to make him stay and have a good 
time, so I had to find him another partner. I did not 
wish him to take me home, because he would ask ques- 
tions, and I hate questions. I was in hopes you would 
be willing to ; but no matter, it is not far, I can go alone. 
I thought you would understand , you were there .” 

It was a little thing, but that childish burst of explana- 
tion, showing how considerate she was, and how unlike 
her it would have been to remain there, gave him more 
pleasure than any thing that had befallen him for years. 

“ Ido understand,” he murmured, softly; “forgive me.” 
He took her cloak, wrapped her in it, with much 
unnecessary tenderness, and then, putting her hand in his 
arm, they went away together. 

Neither said a word. They might have traveled the 
short distance in perfect silence before either of them 
could have found any thing to say. 

But when they had passed the palms, and were out in the 
long trellised walk, Florence stopped suddenly. “ Oh, 


The Cotillon . 


59 

my daisies ! I have lost them,” she cried, turning back. 
“ I can not go on without them.” 

“ Well, sit here beneath this palm,” he said, gently, 
“ and I will go and look for them.” He smiled to himself 
as he left her to find the daisies. 

In a few moments he returned. “ Here they are,” he 
said, handing them to her ; “but do not rise; let us 
remain here for a little ; we will both rest better after- 
ward for it.” 

“ As you like,” she answered him, wearily. “ I am so 
glad you found my flowers, and so tired.” 

She was tired, poor little girl ; he could easily see that 
by the listless way she leaned back in the garden seat, 
overshadowed by the palms, watching the people go back 
and forth. 

They had been sitting there some time when Clarence, 
who had never taken his eyes from her face, said : “ Miss 
Andrews, before our friendship goes any further, I wish 
to ask you to forgive me for being so stupid and unkind 
as to even think you could dance to-night. Will you 
pardon me ? ” he asked, entreatingly, bending toward her. 

“ It was very natural of you to think as you did,” she 
replied, slowly. “ All my life I have been a silly, heart- 
less girl. I have danced many years away. I am sur- 
prised at myself for not being in there this evening. But, 
oh, it was horrible ! ” and she shuddered as she recalled 
the painful scene. “ That man screaming on the couch, 
and that sleek, fawning young priest. Do you know,” 
and she turned seriously to him, “ I think even a priest 
can be verdant.” Her companion gave a low laugh. 

“ That sleek, fawning, verdant young priest,” he said, 
“ is my brother.” 

“ How your brother ? ” and she laughed too ; “ you 
have not frightened me at all ; you are not a priest.” 


6o 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ No — not exactly. Come to the monastery to-morrow 
afternoon with Lady Davenport, and you will discover 
how I am his brother.” 

“ I will if I can,” she answered, eagerly. “ I am very 
much interested in priests just now. I am always inter- 
ested in any thing I dislike extremely.” 

“ And you dislike priests ? ” he asked, greatly amused. 

“ Yes, I loathe them. I do not believe they can know 
or love God very much, for they always pray to Him 
through the assistance of minor personages. Now could 
you,” she continued, very gravely ; “ could you really 
love your father, no matter how great and good he was, 
and feel that he returned your love, if you were obliged 
to go down on your knees to another whenever you 
wished to thank him for some benefit or pleasure he had 
given you ? ” 

“ No, it would not be love ; it would be intense venera- 
tion,” he answered. “ But I fear you do not kneel very 
often to any one.” 

“ You are right,” she replied, sadly. “ I hardly ever go 
down on my knees ; it is so uncomfortable. And then I 
hate to pray regularly, as if I were taking my bath or 
eating my dinner, for I believe that any thing which 
grows into a habit will surely lose its sanctity.” 

“ And when would you advise people to pray ? ” he 
inquired. 

“ Why, whenever they feel like it, of course ; when- 
ever they have any thing to pray about. I do not believe 
God likes us to get on our knees and then not know 
what we are there for ; to meander in and out, through 
many meaningless expressions, and a quantity of vapid 
praise, which He knows we do not feel ; wishing all the 
time we had been there long enough. And then, to 
believe this a divine communion with our Creator ! Oh, 


The Cotillon . 61 

it is horrible — it is lowering to every thing that is 
holy.” 

“ And if you do not pray regularly,” he asked, earnestly, 
after a long pause, “ do you pray irregularly ? ” 

“ Yes, very irregularly,” she said, almost regretfully. 
“ I go for days without praying at all, and do not feel 
so dreadfully wicked ; then I often pray all day, while I 
am walking, playing lawn-tennis, driving, dancing — I 
think I have prayed more at balls than any one place. 
You know, of course, nobody knows it. 1 just make my 
little prayer, and the man beside me goes on with his 
silly chatter ; and I get great comfort from it, too. But, 
oh dear, I am a very wicked and heathenish girl ; and 
what is much worse, when I look honestly into my heart, 
I fear I do not care to be a whit better.” And she sighed 
as she ended her confession. 

“ By Jove, I never met a more depraved young 
person ! ” 

“ You need not ridicule me ; I am really wicked,” she 
said, mournfully ; “ I realize it every day.” 

“ It is most deplorable.” To him, it was exquisite 
pleasure to hear her tafk ; giving him a glimpse of the 
strange sacred side of her character, which the world 
had never guessed. He knew he was so fortunate, only 
because she was excited, and had forgotten she was talk- 
ing, not thinking. No one had ever seen her in this mood 
before ; and she was like a child, pure and innocent ; 
unseared as yet by the world she lived in. “ And what 
do you pray for at balls ? ” he asked, at last ; “ I can 
think of but one thing.” He wished to make her speak 
again. 

For a moment, she looked at him a trifle scornfully. 
“ No,” she said, “ I do not pray to heaven to send me a 
number of dancers, or that the other girls will look ugly, 


62 


A Moral Sinner . 


and be neglected. I ask God to some time give me a 
higher aim than all this frivolity. To some time show 
me how silly and selfish it all is ; and when I am older, 
for Him to make me crave a nobler and a better exist- 
ence ; and let me leave it, all, willingly, and of my own 
accord choose a wiser path, and do some good for hav- 
ing lived my life. And now I am very tired ; will you 
take me home ? ” 

He gave her his arm, without a word. He could not 
speak ; every syllable she had uttered more plainly 
proved to him the wrong impression the world held of 
her ; unconsciously he pressed her arm nearer him. 
“ Lean on me heavily, little one,” he said, tenderly ; “ it 
was cruel to.keep you out there so long.” 

“ Oh, no, I enjoyed it so much ; but,” she added, quite 
humbly, “ please don’t think me very bad.” 

“ Indeed I will not,” he answered, emphatically ; “ you 
have taught me a wonderful lesson, for I have always 
confined my prayers to my own bed-chamber or the 
sanctuary — two places where I am sure to be sleepy.” 

“Tell me,” said Clarence, when they had nearly 
reached the hotel, “ why do you cling so persistently to 
those daisies ? ” 

“ They are my favorite flowers, and they came in such 
a mysterious way,” she replied. “ I think some one very 
charming must have sent them.” 

“ Now,” thought Clarence, “ my fate, and my way of 
carrying on the siege, shall be decided.” 

“ Would you like to know who sent them ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, could you tell me ? ” she cried, delightedly. 

“ Yes, I saw them bought and paid for,” he answered, 
much amused by her anxiety to hear. 

“ Quick, then,” she exclaimed. “ Who was the man ? do 
tell me.” 


The Cotillon. 


63 

“You take it for granted it was a man," and he 
laughed heartily. “ Well, it was a man, and the man’s 
name was — Clarence Thornberry.” 

The daisies went whizzing yards through the air. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he cried, much surprised at the 
violent effect of his information. 

“ Clarence Thornberry ! how I despise him, and his 
flowers too,” she exclaimed, passionately. “ How I hate 
him for sending them to me ! Good-night,” she added, 
as she hurriedly left him, so he should not see the angry 
tears she knew were near by. The thought that she had 
treasured and loved those daisies all these hours, and 
that Lord Thornberry had probably seen her with them 
in her hand, was too much for her to bear. 

After Florence’s sudden disappearance at the entrance 
of the hotel, Clarence strolled slowly back to the ball- 
room. The temporary building erected for the occasion 
was only a square or two off, but in traversing that short 
distance he did much thinking. Never before had he 
run through the gamut of emotions in so small a space of 
time. 

He had gone through life, every one caring for him 
and his pleasure. Women particularly had flung their 
love at his feet ; and he, alas ! too indifferent, trod on, 
not caring to gather the flowers which would have so 
willingly garnished his path. But he was never censured ; 
the world never called him bad names. To him, women 
had grown positively irksome ; although having myriads 
of love affairs, the love was usually on the other side, 
and he rarely suffered when the severance came, as 
come it invariably did, after a not very protracted period. 

“ Why do women, as soon as one knows them well, 
cease to be attractive ? ” This was his constant com- 
plaint. 


64 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ My dear fellow,” he once said, quite sadly, to a friend, 
“ I am very fond of Lady Philippa. I adore her, in fact ; 
but I try not to see her often; I am afraid for my esteem, 
for my affection, which I should like to prolong as far 
into the season as possible.” And although this sounds 
conceited, it was not meant so in the least. 

But here was a girl of an entirely different type from 
any he had ever met before ; whose face he had admired 
for two years ; whose picture he had always with him, 
carried simply for the sake of its beauty. And now he 
had met the owner of that fair face ; and he found her 
worthy of it. Her soul was purity itself. Toward her 
he did not feel the same as toward other women ; he 
felt he must know her better ; see her more ; she would 
never tire him, that he knew full well. And she had pas- 
sionately flung away the daisies, simply because he had 
sent them. How would she have acted had she known 
who he was ? She would never speak to him again. 
That, too, he knew. 

When he arrived at the ball, which was now on the 
wane, he went at once to Lady Davenport, and sitting 
down by her side told her all that had occurred, in every 
particular. 

“ And now you see, dear Lady Davenport, since I have 
met her — met her, too, in a manner I would almost regret, 
had it not been so delightful — what am I to do ? I must 
see her again ; I must teach her to care for my — my 
friendship, before she discovers who I am. Then, I trust, 
she will not give me up.” • 

“ But who did you tell her you were ? ” she asked. 

“ She seemed perfectly indifferent to the fact that I 
could possess any thing so disagreeable and unnecessary 
as a name,” he answered. “ But tell me, what do you 
advise ? ” And he looked anxiously at her. 


The Cotillon. 


65 


For some minutes Lady Davenport remained thinking 
earnestly. Then she smiled, gave her hand a complacent 
little tap. “ Lord Thornberry,” she said, “ draw your 
chair up nearer.” He did as he was bid, and together 
they commenced a grave consultation. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE MORNING AFTER. 

The next morning could hardly be called pleasant. It 
was a day when if one wished to assume an ultramarine 
frame of mind, there was no reason for not doing so. 
Nature promised to be quite sympathetic ; no sunbeams 
would smile sweetly, but aggravatingly, on your bad 
humor ; no birds, chirping merrily, would tell you, like 
certain well-meaning friends, how unnecessarily ill- 
natured you were ; every thing was in melancholy harmony. 

As each member of the party descended to breakfast, 
and heard the fall and drizzle of the rain-drops outside, 
each felt the gloom echoed in his own heart. 

Nature was brave and honest ; she made her grief audi- 
ble ; her tears ran down the window panes ; she sighed 
and groaned on the breast of every tree. But these 
good people were obliged to hide their little annoyances, 
or their dear friends might be tempted to proffer unwel- 
come pity for some supposed misfortune ; and pity , 
deserved or undeserved, noisy or silent, is objectionable ; 
so they felt compelled to appear cheerful and bright as 
they entered the room. 

There was no actual reason why these several persons 
should be gloomy or sad, except, perhaps, the fact that 
they had had a “ particularly jolly time ” the night before ; 
and that is almost excuse enough for any one being 
gloomy the next morning. Why is it ? Because the 
pleasure is gone by — never, never to come back, leaving 


The Morning After . 67 

an empty gap, which anticipation had filled for a certain 
time before ? Or is it because the pleasure has proved 
itself so vapid, so shallow, that a sort of self-loathing 
steps in ; a self-disgust, that one can really enjoy such 
frivolous things. How often it is necessary to find an 
excuse to hush that rude, dictatorial second self which 
is so constantly demanding apologies for any little pecca- 
dilloes we may too willingly commit. 

Now, Lady Davenport was quite complacent ; she had 
sacrificed herself ; she had gone to the ball simply to 
please the others. To be sure, she had enjoyed herself 
immensely ; but that was good luck ; her conscience need 
not be restless. 

All were out of humor, with the exception of Lady 
Davenport and Florence. The latter had retired in a 
most disturbed state of mind, and when she awoke in 
the morning, had that not unusual feeling of depression 
which arises from some momentarily forgotten cause, the 
passing shadow of some unknown evil, which all no doubt 
have suffered. But when she had catalogued her actions 
of yesterday, regulating her ideas sufficiently to discover 
the disagreeable sensation arose from the mortification 
of having so unwittingly carried Lord Thornberry’s 
flowers, her relief of mind was great at its being no 
worse a cause, and she suddenly became so astound- 
ingly happy that her condition surprised even herself ; 
for remember it was still early in the day. 

But then, had she not met the most charming of men 
the night before ? Had she not played a most extraor- 
dinary part in a most interesting adventure ; which in 
broad daylight lost its tragical character, and left nothing 
but undistilled romance. 

“ But what a little fool he must have thought me. The 
idea of talking to him about saying my prayers, as if he 


68 


A Moral Sinner. 


were a nursery governess, or a father confessor ! By 
the way,” she added, slowly, “ 1 do wonder who he is ; I 
never thought of that before ; and how is he that priest’s 
brother ? Well, I shall at least know all about him to-day ; 
he promised to explain, if we would go to visit the mon- 
astery. I do hope and pray Lady Davenport won’t 
object when I propose going this afternoon.” After 
which soliloquy she descended to breakfast, humming 
“ Verlegenheit ”, which proved her blissful state of mind. 

“ How did you all enjoy yourselves last evening ? ” 
she said, addressing the whole table, as she entered the 
room. 

“ O ! O ! ! O ! ! ! ” exclaimed the elder How, who had 
forgotten to lay aside her patched and mended juvenility? 
which, although very fine at night, sheltered by the gas 
and gayety, looked like the most forlorn toggery in the 
morning’s unkind stare. 

“ We just had the most elegant time imaginable,” added 
her sister, who felt the How dignity in danger of falling 
if only supported by three exclamations, which often 
mean nothing. 

“Sure, for a French affair, it was not bad,” said 
Maurice Fallon ; “ but then Miss Langdon was there.” 

Private imprecations from Miss Langdon. We all 
know a man is an idiot to ever exhibit undue devotion, 
particularly in public — except with a very few women. 
As a rule, a girl invariably desires what she can not have. 
Oh ! the charm a man loses, when he allows both the 
woman and the world to know that he loves. 

“ Yes, we did have a very good time. I think Harold 
Beresford and I danced oftener than any two other peo- 
ple in the room.” Sweet is a retaliating snub, even when 
we love ; so, at least, thought Miss Langdon. 

“ By Jove ! ” Beresford answered, “ we did. I would 


The Morning After. 


69 

a deal rather, you know, favor a girl than be her partner, 
you know ; have so much more dancing, you know ; more 
satisfactory altogether ; voluntary admiration, you know.” 
This young person always gave the people with whom he 
conversed the credit of having a previous knowledge of 
every subject possible to strike, no matter how adroitly 
he navigated his little craft through the abstruse creeks 
and streams of conversation, you know. 

“ Carrie Langdon and I, you know,” he continued, 
“ have danced together for years and years. By Jove ! 
you know, I could have throttled that wild Frenchman 
when I saw him rushing round in such a violent manner 
with you tucked under his arm. 

“ Quite helpless like,” put in Maurice, feeling some 
remark was expected from him. “ I noticed his wretched 
•dancing myself.” 

“ Come, that’s too good, Maurice,” and Beresford 
roared with laughter. “ You and he danced as much alike 
as swallows following each other in their flight.” 

“ I hate that frenchman ; he is such a fool,” exclaimed 
Percy. He had a fellow-feeling for the unhappy Irish 
lover. “ I hate him, his collar is so oppressively jovial.” 

“ Good, Percy,” said Florence, approvingly, between a 
sip of coffee and a bite of roll. She was happy, but she did 
not despise her breakfast. “ You can judge a man more 
by his collar than any feature heaven has blessed him 
with. The set of his collar is acquired by his own 
labors ; his progenitors have nothing whatever to do with 
it ; for all they care, he can go without the aforesaid 
article altogether ; in that case he is disguised, masked 
as it were.” 

“ Not collared, you mean? "said Percy, who felt he 
grasped the intricacies of the subject. 

“ Exactly ! ” replied Florence, much gratified. “ Col- 


70 


A Moral Sinner. 


lared, you are a slave ; your style, your thoughts — every 
thing is laid open for the world’s inspection.” 

“ So you think a collar is a subtle spy on a man’s indi- 
viduality. How perfectly absurd ! ” said Lady Daven- 
port, who was never sure whether Florence was making 
a fool of herself or others. 

“ Indeed it is not,” Florence answered, quite earnestly. 
“ All great theories have been laughed at at first. Just 
fancy a Sabbath-school superintendent with a neglige 
collar ! If a man dabbles a little in art, he wears a 
Byronic one ; we meet him in the street, or stumble on 
him in the ball-room, amidst a crowd of men wearing 
high, stiff, practical collars ; we know he is a dilettante ; 
if a dilletante, no matter how exalted his position, there 
are moments in his life when he is consumed with envy, 
perhaps of a starving artist, who he sees has a future 
before him which he, in his higher social career, with all 
his wealth, all his rank, has no time, no genius, no energy, 
to rival. And we detect his secret yearning — how ? By 
the depression of his collar.” 

“ Mein Gott ! ” exclaimed the German member, “ do 
you include the neck-tie ? ” and he clutched a brilliant 
red one. 

“ Of course. Now if a man has a gorgeous diamond 
collar-button, and he arranges his tie so as to make the 
stud a sort of head-light, why we all know what he is, 
don’t we ? You,” she said, as a sort of apology, “ have 
the most charming neck decorations,” and she gazed at 
them all with such an air of truthfulness, that every 
man present firmly believed that she spoke individually 
to him. 

“ I never imagined,” said Lady Davenport, “ that one 
could say so much on the stupid subject of collars.” 

“ Now, what I want to know,” said Florence, cheerfully 


The Morning After. yi 

ignoring her ladyship’s reproof, “ is who received the 
most favors ? ” and she turned to the girls. 

“ I only got twenty-six,” sweetly acknowledged the 
youngest How. 

“ I don’t care much for favors,” said her sister. “ I 
only care for dancing. O ! how I do adore dancing ! ” 

“ Well,” said Lady lone, in a frank, manly, honest 
way, “ I am very fond of favors, and I received a great 
number ; but I gave them all to my partner to take home 
to his little sister.” 

“ The favors were fearfully ugly. I have often gotten 
more in London, where, O ! they are so sweet,” enthusi- 
astically cried Miss How. 

“ Thank the Lord,” said Beresford to Percy, in an 
aside, “ men don’t row it about paltry favors. How can 
girls ? ” 

Percy looked skeptical. “ No, they don’t row it, I will 
admit, but they feel deucedly put out, if they see some 
lucky fellow getting more than themselves.” 

“ And now, may we inquire how many favors you 
received?” asked Miss How of Florence. 

“ I did not get a single one,” she replied, meekly. 

“ Alas ! they had not even noticed her absence,” she 
thought. “ What is fame ? ” 

“ You did not get a single favor ? ” the maidens, one 
and all, exclaimed ; not however with that soothing air of 
sympathy one might have hoped for. They looked at 
each other triumphantly ; a sort of ocular hand-shaking 
took place. “Joy ! ” they seemed to cry, “ her success is 
over ! Well, they had been expecting it.” 

But Percy could not stand this supposed neglect. 
“ She was not at the german ; she passed the whole even- 
ing at the death bed of a Russian peasant, who could not 
speak a word of French or English ; poor fellow, con- 


7 2 


A Moral Sinner. 


found him ! confound him ! for taking her off.” Which 
Percy was most provoked at, could hardly be guessed. 

“ Why, Percy, what an immense fib you are telling ! ” 
Florence exclaimed, blushing terribly. She would not for 
the world have these silly people know how she passed 
those few hours. “ I was having a lovely time out in the 
moonlight, by the century plants, listening to Keith Mun- 
fort reciting Tennyson’s ‘Maud 

Keith Munfort had adored Florence ever since she 
was a little girl. Last night he had been suffering agony 
from neuralgia, in his own private apartment ; but he was 
quite ready to have it supposed that he was otherwise 
blissfully employed. 

“By Jove!” he answered, with great animation, “ I 
wager I enjoyed last evening more than any man here, 
with Maud and Miss Andrews both in the garden. Noth- 
ing less than paradise can compare to it ! ” But no one 
took up the wager, probably thinking the betting would 
be all on one side. The smile Florence gave him made 
him feel that, wicked as it might be, he would willingly 
lie on forever, were he to be so rewarded. 

“Come, Percy,” Florence said, goingtoward the window. 
When she knew men well, she treated them in a trustful, 
sisterly manner, which they enjoyed in inverse proportion 
as it shocked maturer minds. “ These people feel stupid 
this morning. I can see it by the indolent way they sip 
their coffee.” Knowing she spoke the truth, they all 
looked up reproachfully. “ Pray, don’t feel hurt,” she 
continued ; “ being grieved rarely pays. You know well, 
with the exception of myself, not one here has relished 
his breakfast. You all have bad tastes in your mouths, 
left over from last night’s sweet-meats.” 

“ O ! ye gods ! ” cried Beresford. “ In vulgar parlance, 
she would insinuate we were bilious.” 


The Morning After. 


73 


“ No such thing ! ” exclaimed Florence, hastily. “ I 
was speaking in a very elegantly metaphorical manner. 
Although I believe you are right, and every one of you 
is mentally bilious. For once be honest. Acknowledge 
that none of you can digest the silly, unwholesome trash 
you talked and listened to last night.” 

“ That is true, mademoiselle,” answered M. Chev- 
alierre, the Frenchman. “ When I think to myself the 
nonsense we talked, that little Russian countess and me, 
my whole soul feels as if it needed a clearing up ; as if 
it ought to go to the mountains, and let the winds and 
rains straight from heaven get to it, sweep out the rub- 
bish in the corners, and brush down the cobwebs hang- 
ing on the walls of my brain, which make me feel neither 
as good nor as bright as I might.” After which florid 
confession he modestly retired behind his empty coffee 
cup ; the vacuity of which he for some time failed to dis- 
cover.” 

“ A secret unloosed ! ” cried Percy. “ Chevalierre has 
been up all night. No man could poetize so early in the 
morning, if he had not been out of bed the night before.” 

“ Indeed you are wrong,” said Lady Davenport. (Why 
do women always come to the rescue ?) “ Monsieur 

Chevalierre’s remarkably humble confession shows what 
an excellent night’s rest he must have enjoyed to so 
fully recover his usual common-sense.” 

“ Chere madame ! ” exclaimed Chevalierre, going toward 
her. He had once, long, long ago, loved Lady Daven- 
port, and men are very kind, very considerate to the 
women for whom they have once felt une grande passion, 
and who, alas ! have grown old while they are still young. 
“From you,” he said softly, “alone from you, could I 
have hoped for this defense — this goodness.” 

“Ah! that is not fair,” interrupted Florence. “You 


74 


A Moral Sinner. 


know Lady Davenport better than you know any of us. 
We are all capable of the same amount of goodness, in 
behalf of a man who dares to be sentimental over any 
thing as prosaic as his morning chop.” 

“ I trust Monsieur Chevalierre does not imagine we 
are all as disgustingly frivolous as he has painted himself,” 
blandly remarked his German foe, who thought Chev- 
alierre was having too pleasant a time. “ For even when 
the brilliancy of the stars and moon mingle with the 
light and warmth of a ball-room to make us reckless, 
even then we are men ; how can we be frivolous ? ” And 
feeling the beauty of his paradox, “ How could men be 
frivolous?” Far outshining his enemy’s “mental cob- 
webs ”, he too tried to drain an empty cup. 

“ Pardon, Herr Oberteuffer ; you forget the Germans 
have not that ready suppleness — that delightfulness of 
adaptability, laughing with the gay, weeping with them 
that mourn. It is his ready sympathy that makes 
a Frenchman so charming in whatever society he may be 
cast. The Germans are all sediment; the French effer- 
vesce.” 

“ O good gracious ! ” cried Florence, fearing some- 
thing too brilliant might be said ; “ how awfully rude we 
are all getting. When a man tries to drink coffee from 
an empty cup, and adds unnecessary syllables, why you 
know the height of insolence is reached. Now, like two 
seraphs, come and make up, for I do hate to be outdone 
in rudeness ; and I can not now think of any thing very 
impertinent to say ; but the truth is, I do not see any one 
worth being impertinent to. Bie?i ! voulez-vous me donner 
le biscuit ? ” 

“Florence,” said Lady Davenport, “as usual you are 
talking supreme nonsense ; and so early, too.” 

“ Dear friend, you hurt my amour propre. I wish to 


7 $ 


The Morning After. 

remain awake a few hours, and if I allowed myself 
to look silently at you too long — I speak collectively — 
your stupid, sleepy mood might be contagious.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” murmured her ladyship pathetically, 
“ imagine an English girl daring to be so saucy. She 
would be banished from the drawing-room for days.” 

Florence, apparently all repentance, flung herself down 
by Lady Davenport’s knee, and taking her two hands, 
looked up with such a sweet confidence and truth, 
that she made a beautiful picture of filial devotion. 
“ Dear one, I can not regard you as a severe duenna — 
a strict and dreaded guardian. I have indeed tried to be 
afraid of you — but no, I can not. I always feel you are 
my dearest friend ; a delightful confidante ; wiser, but no 
older, than myself. Now will you kiss me, and make 
up? ” 

To all of which Lady Davenport smilingly assented. 

Dear reader, I am not transcribing this conversation 
either for its wit or profundity ; these are nineteenth 
century people, innocent of such qualities ; we are all 
ordinary to-day ; the world knows too much, has read 
too much, to be witty or original any longer ; all that is 
worth saying has been said. It is useless to try to con- 
verse uniquely ; for the clever speech one is about to utter, 
whose parent one flatters himself to be, has no doubt 
been safely bound up in printed books for years. We 
can imagine Aristotle even, incensed at Socrates for liv- 
ing a generation before him, and getting a corner on an 
idea that he might have possessed. 

Perhaps Hypatia and Aspasia were wise only because 
the world was still young, and the finest thoughts had 
not yet been monopolized ; brilliant, also, because the 
other women were stupid. Fortunate is it for them 
they lived in the age they did. If Hypatia lived across 


A Moral Sinner. 


76 

the square, and Aspasia on the next above, what would 
their fame be now ? 

So we must laugh at wretched threadbare jokes, since 
there is nothing better ; and if we did not pretend to 
see wit where no wit lieth, our zygomatic muscles would 
become too rusty for use at any time. We must be 
interested in bores, and be bored with ourselves, because 
we are polite members of polite society. 

“ Is there any one here,” asked Florence, rising, “ who 
would not prefer something horrible to happen than 
nothing at all ? Dreadful must be the catastrophe which 
would not be welcome. You are cross and disagreeable, 
because you are expecting a long, stupid day. Ennui 
always results in murder or suicide if kept up long enough ; 
so be comforted.” 

“ Really, Florence,” said Lady Davenport, “ your last 
speech was exceedingly trite, quite beneath your dig- 
nity ; but I confess it was redeemed by the novelty of 
your first remark. How do you judge that we are so 
depraved as to enjoy a calamity ? ” 

“ Well — now — ” Florence slowly answered, feeling 
after she had made a ridiculous assertion justice demanded 
she should stand by it — “ now,” and she searched her brain 
for an illustration, “ suppose Percy and I should go out 
driving, and in half an hour a story should reach you, 
that we had been attacked by a band of masked men, 
mounted on exquisite steeds ; Percy had been wounded 
and I carried off amid oaths, screams, and triumphant 
singing ; would you not unconsciously smack your lips 
over something so tragical, at the same time so romantic ? 
For the moment you would enjoy it immensely. So like 
the old days of chivalry, so poetical, so like Paul Clifford, 
you would think. Even if Percy were to die, and I 
never be seen again, the excitement would be pleasant. 


The Morning After . 


77 


Hush, hush,” she exclaimed, as they were about to inter- 
rupt her ; for she felt her sophistry was making an impres- 
sion ; “ of necessity you must enjoy it, because it would 
break the monotony. You perhaps would not realize it, 
but you would feel awfully disappointed, and not a little 
injured, if you saw us both placidly strolling up the 
path, munching nougat contentedly, when you had 
anticipated seeing Percy brought home covered with gore, 
and hearing that I had wedded an Hungarian lord who 
already possessed two wives. In some secret recess of 
your hearts’ anatomy, you would feel as if you had been 
cheated ; and we would not be welcomed with open 
arms, but be treated coldly all day, for not having been 
killed or carried off.” 

A volley of reproaches was hurled at her from all 
directions as she finished. 

“ You impute exceedingly strange sensations to your 
friends,” said Miss How, very shocked ; not that she 
felt it would be impossible to feel as Florence had des- 
cribed, but the folly of telling people how base one could 
be ! 

“ I believe all Americans are cannibals at heart,” added 
Lady lone. 

“ Well, you may call me a cannibal, if you like,” 
Florence answered, slowly, a little sadly, too, perhaps ; 
“ but you are all longing for something, and are afraid 
to call it by its real name. I judge you by myself. I 
would rather suffer, than feel nothing . The news of 
Percy’s valet having run away with Miss How’s maid 
and Lady lone’s jewels, would be a relief ; and if we 
heard the British Isles had been swallowed up in the 
English Channel, we should have something to talk 
about all through luncheon. Your hearts, bodies, and 
souls, cry ‘ Excitement ’ ; you believe one good ball 


78 A Moral Sinner. 

not only deserves another, but positively demands 
it.” 

“ What sublime nonsense you have talked this morn- 
ing,” Lady Davenport said, for the third time ; “ not a 
sensible word for two hours.” 

“ Dear one, I am perfectly aware of that fact,” she 
calmly replied ; “ but one must talk, and remember what 
Mallock says about ‘ conversation being like cham- 
pagne And it is so much easier to indulge in non- 
sense than worry your brain to say something clever, 
which nobody is going to thank you for.” 

“ By George ! that’s true,” exclaimed Percy. “ No one 
should be held accountable for what they say in society. 
We talk to fill up, as we eat bread with pate de foie 
gras." 

Florence looked radiant. “ I am so glad some one 
understands. Oh ! how much I should prefer being 
considered bad, wicked, insane even, than stupid. And 
now farewell, mes chers camarades. Percy and I are going 
out in the rain, to try and seek adventure for your 
amusement.” 


CHAPTER VIII, 


AN INTERLUDE. 

Florence and Percy started off on their dewy walk, 
trudging cheerfully on, up the narrow streets of the town, 
in the pouring rain. Interviewing all the picturesque 
persons they met on their way; always finding some 
excellent excuse for so doing by inquiring the way 
back to the hotel, or some other bit of important informa- 
tion. 

They regarded these good people as a sort of human 
bonbon , of a most delicious flavor. True, it sounds 
rather cannibalistic, as Lady lone said ; but it was so 
much pleasanter to listen to the quaint wisdom of these 
old town folk, in their charming patois, than pretend to 
feel interest in the stupidity one had to put up with at 
home. And then, too, these adventures, and conversa- 
tions with the peasantry, always furnished such unique 
dinner anecdotes, which Florence thought as necessary 
as a becoming gown. 

But the other members of the party regarded it as a 
very peculiar amusement, and really could not discover 
wherein the enjoyment lay. It was entirely owing to 
this habit of talking to the children on the road, to the 
old men and women in the shops, that Florence had 
acquired her remarkable knowledge of the European 
dialects. 

While they were thus amusing themselves, the others 


8o 


A Moral Sinner . 


were quietly remaining at home, wishing they were any- 
where under heaven but there , yet lacking the energy to 
move. Lady Davenport, however, must be excepted. She 
was safely barricaded in her own room, and, strange to 
relate, entirely occupied with her own thoughts, a diver- 
sion she rarely allowed herself. She hated “ to think ”, 
and for once she was obliged to. It was absolutely nec- 
essary that she should think, and think quickly too. 
She had promised to arrange some plan, apparently 
accidental, so that Florence should see Lord Thornberry 
that afternoon at the monastery. But how could this be 
done ? If the rest went, he, of course, would be rec- 
ognized, and Florence would discover who he was. 
Lady Davenport was very much interested in this meet- 
ing. To her Clarence Thornberry was nothing more or 
less than an excellent parti for Florence. And Florence 
was the only human being, besides herself, whose happi- 
ness she had ever considered ; which was a noble tribute 
to the girl, when we think of the circumstances, and how 
selfish the world is generally. 

But Lady Davenport knew that beneath this phos- 
phorescent gayety, there was a depth and generosity 
that would have surprised many of her friends ; that in 
her heart, some time, if not now, “ Mercy and truth would 
meet together ; righteousness and peace would kiss each 
other.” 

Meanwhile her ladyship was thinking still. She knew it 
would be most difficult to keep the others at home, and 
if they went, they must of necessity see Thornberry. It 
would be useless to appeal to them to keep secret his 
identity ; people are not romantic in crowds. They 
would regard it a rather good joke, and tell her his name 
as soon as they returned home, in order to witness the 
effect in the most satisfactory manner, 


An Interlude. 


81 


One's greatest deeds are generally inspirations. Sud- 
denly Lady Davenport seized her portfolio, and in ten 
minutes a note was dispatched to Clarence. Then, once 
more, with a sigh of relief, she exchanged her own 
thoughts for Ouida’s. 

At luncheon, after much serious deliberation as to how 
it would be best to put it, Florence proposed, in the 
most careless and indifferent of , manners, that it might 
be amusing to visit the monastery upon the hill, as the 
day had grown so pleasant. 

“ Indeed it would 1 ” exclaimed Lady Davenport, as 
near enthusiasm as she ever permitted herself. “ The 
sun is trying so hard to behave itself that we ought to 
take the will for the deed, and encourage its efforts by 
going out.” Good humor and poetical fancies always 
went hand in hand in the brain of this worthy woman ; 
in fact, she was so heartily grateful to Florence for 
broaching the subject, that she was radiant for some 
time after. 

Now she might appear ignorant of any previous 
arrangements ; and this particularly pleased her, as she 
was most desirous Florence should not know that she 
was in any way acquainted with the friend of last even- 
ing ; as that might lead to a discovery of who Lord 
Thornberry was, which would be a most disastrous 
denouement. 

As every one firmly believed Lady Davenport’s 
schemes for amusement would rival those of the monks 
of Alcobaca, and that she could have suggested some- 
thing much more unique and enjoyable than Nero’s 
harmless chef d oeuvre could she have interviewed 
that old reprobate, they all thought Florence’s proposal 
a most perfect idea, as long as that great power ap- 
proved it. 


82 


A Moral Sinner. 


They would go to vespers in the chapel, and through 
the monastery afterward. The going to vespers was 
really imperative, for it alone did away with the possi- 
ble imputation that mere vulgar curiosity took them 
there. But, to be honest, one must confess that it is 
not seldom curiosity puts on the frock of piety. 

So at five in the afternoon the entire party set off, 
like so many devoted pilgrims. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A VISIT TO THE MONASTERY. 

In through the open portals of the saintly abode they 
went, leaving behind them the world of man — a world of 
mingled ugliness and sin, of goodness and of beauty. 
Given by God, with all the love and compassion that a 
father could bestow with a dangerous gift, which might 
bless with a wondrous joy, or carry in its trail the tor- 
tures of hell. 

Up through the woods they had come, over the path 
which but rarely felt the pressure of any but saintly feet. 
The sun would soon be sinking, tired, it seemed, with its 
efforts to shine through the mist and the rain ; weary, 
as many a heart is, which has struggled to do what God 
has not willed. 

The shadows were long and heavy, turning the whole 
forest into fantastic silhouettes. But the little patches 
of green that the sun, making its way between the 
branches of the trees, called out to bid “ good-night ”, 
proved how deceitful appearances are, for, had the 
woods not already donned their dominoes of shade, it 
would have been found that the sward here was as ordi- 
narily green as common-place grass in less romantic 
localities. The birds were chanting their Ave Maria, 
accompanied sympathetically by the waters of a little 
brook softly running over the pebbles of its stony bed, 
and at each interlude some stray breeze could be dis- 
tinctly heard, whispering with those gossipy old leaves 


3 4 


A Moral Sinner. 


which*never can be quite silent, and which having drunk 
deeply of the morning’s rain, seemed readier than ever to 
discuss their neighbors’ affairs. 

From the world of nature they went into the world of 
sacrifice and prayer. 

The monastery was an old castle, which had never 
been occupied. It was built in the beginning of the 
reign of Louis XIV. This is sufficient to tell of the 
unnecessary profusion in its erection. But the downfall 
of the state followed so soon, that the unfortunate owner 
never enjoyed living in the home he vainly hoped 
would descend to posterity as a substantial evidence of 
his wealth and unrivaled taste. 

Just as it was, it had stood for centuries, waiting to 
offer shelter to some tired mortal who might there seek 
repose ; looking, meanwhile, calmly down on France, 
amid all her trials ; seeing the light creep slowly forth 
after the long protracted gloom ; watching and waiting 
through all her adversity, as well as prosperity ; having 
no call made upon its hospitality — until a few years ago 
it awoke to find itself a cloister. And it was a sad, 
dreary awakening, after so many winters and summers of 
sleep, for those walls that had thought to see the mer- 
riest lives go their merry way. 

The architecture was a wild conglomeration, half 
moresque, half Christian, built utterly without plan or 
design of any kind. Here was a Catharine wheel-win- 
dow illuminating a Corinthian stairway ; there Tuscan 
columns supporting Gothic arches. But nature was kind, 
and graceful, clinging vines had wound the eastern 
minarets and northern bartizans in such close embrace, 
that it now looked like an exquisite medley of the past. 

As the visitors entered the bronze archway, a sudden 
hush fell on their gayety ; soft, plaintive music seemed 


85 


A Visit to the Monastery. 

sighing in the distance ; it was like the threshold of a 
better world ; very different from the vespers in the 
great cathedrals of the town, where the crowds come and 
go, each intent on his or her own prayer; where the 
priests bless the multitude., with the same pious regular- 
ity, day after day. 

Here, it was like spying on a man engaged in his 
secret devotions. And they feared almost intruding 
upon these holy men, at their evening service in the 
dimly lighted chapel. It was small, but of marvelous 
perfection, where one would be inclined to worship some 
object, were it but the beauty of the sanctuary itself. 

In through the cinque-foil openings poured the rays of 
the sinking sun, making the brilliant coloring of the 
walls brighter by this borrowed luster ; but mingling with 
the candle light, it threw pale, weird shadows on the pic- 
tured saints, looking calmly down from above. The 
floor of the chapel was of malachite and brass ; a strange 
combination, almost barbaric. This part of the building 
had been chosen for public prayer, because there was 
less of this oriental splendor here than elsewhere. But 
here, even, it appeared in a most incongruous manner. 
There were remarkable, wild, unknown beasts, carved in 
alto-relievo on each side of the entrance, which could 
hardly be Biblical illustrations. Between each window 
was an abacus of ancient mosaics : just below the annu- 
let of each column was a brass serpent, wound round, 
with its head half severed from its body, the interpreta- 
tion of which had died with the architect. The consoles, 
built in the frescoed walls, were of mother of pearl, and 
showed out pure and beautiful from the gorgeous hues 
of their background ; on them were placed statuettes of 
saints and martyrs, taken from the niches of other 
churches. The altar was of the purest marble, as was 


86 


A Moral Sinner . 


also the baldachin under which it stood. The rich som- 
berness of the rest of the chapel threw this spot in high 
relief ; its luminous whiteness was almost startling. 
Around this the monks were kneeling. 

Some one came forward to receive them, and they were 
soon put at their ease by discovering that the service here 
in this strange, fantastic place, was the same as in the 
far-away St. Peter’s. 

“ Florence ! Florence ! ” said Lady Davenport, “ they 
have finished, we are going to look at the dungeons.” 
And seeing Florence did not move, she continued, more 
emphatically, “ Come, come, it is all over, and we are to 
see the rest of the castle. Are you asleep ? or do you 
wish to be left behind ? ” 

The girl had quite forgotten Lady Davenport, and the 
others. She was thinking— thinking of many things ; 
wondering whether the Virgin Mary was really such a 
beautiful woman as they represented her to be, and 
dressed as gorgeously as her magnificent picture behind 
the altar bore witness. Whether she should see her 
friend of last night ; and whether he woCild re?nember 
whether those monks had all been disappointed in love, 
and had entered the brotherhood on that account ; for 
to her this was the only solution of so strange an act. 
Whether they were really saying their prayers ; and 
whether they believed she was saying hers, and how 
dreadfully mistaken they were if they did. Then she 
went on wondering about the chapel, and the artist who 
planned it, if he had much difficulty combining the 
antique with the modern. Whether Heaven blessed a 
church in proportion to the money expended in its dec- 
orations ; and so on, each thought displacing the other, 
until they left her in a drowsy maze. 

She arose slowly, and followed Lady Davenport, leaving 


A Visit to the Monastery. 87 

her dreams, like a bunch of faded flowers, behind her in 
the seat she had quitted. 

With two priests leading the way, they went through 
the old castle, up and down, along narrow passages, at 
the end of crooked openings, out into broad hallways, 
through gigantic arches. 

Perhaps, even in this holy place, the flesh and the devil 
waged war with the angels. But although they saw the 
monks file past them, going to their evening meal, and 
met many a tardy one in the different chambers through 
which they passed, not once did Florence catch a 
glimpse of her friend, and feeling tired and disappointed, 
having lost all pleasure in the looked-for visit, she fol- 
lowed the others languidly, hardly understanding their 
enthusiam over objects which to her seemed really very 
ordinary. 

As they passed the chapel again, on their way back, to 
look at the upper part of the cloister, Florence stopped 
at the entrance, amazed at its loveliness, in the pure 
candle light. Some one was playing on the organ, a sad, 
plaintive Te Deum ; and knowing they would not miss 
her until they returned, as Lady Davenport was keeping 
Percy by her side vigorously occupied, she stepped in, 
unable to resist the fascination of that solemn tran- 
quillity. 

The perfect peace, and the weariness she could not 
explain, made her sad. “ Ah, this is the way it is when 
one dies,” she murmured to herself. “ Your friends, and 
your enemies too for that matter, come with you as far 
as the sanctuary ; and then you drop behind, and they 
go on alone, soon forgetting you traveled with them even 
that far.” Going toward a small Prie-Dieu, she sank on 
her knees, and her tears, slowly falling, found their way 
to her clasped hands, and told them she was weeping. 


88 


A Moral Sinner . 


She was not crying because she was grieved at not seeing 
him — he was already him to her — but because she was so 
perfectly alone ; because it was all so beautiful and 
strange, in the candle light, with the sainted people on 
the wall. And somehow God seemed very near. 

Softly the solemn music sent up its song of praise to 
heaven, stealing out through the windows which the 
curious moon had just then reached and was trying to 
peep through. Just as the moon beams had touched the 
edge of her gown, thinking perhaps she, too, was a mar- 
tyred saint, condemned in effigy to pray forever, and, 
growing bolder, were softly creeping all around her, 
she heard a footstep coming near, and nearer. She 
crouched down, with her head bowed lower, hoping that, 
be it a priest or one of her friends, she would be passed 
unnoticed. But no, she heard some one come forward, 
then stop directly behind her. Yes, they must be there 
watching her, wondering what she was praying so earn- 
estly about. Suppose it was Lady Davenport or one of 
the others, how they would ridicule this unwonted senti- 
ment on her part. She was afraid to look up. 

“ Little one," she heard some one say, after a long 
pause, “ little one, I did not think to find you kneeling 
here in a position you once said was so uncomfortable. 
May I help you in your devotions? " 

She did not answer ; she dared not turn. That 
voice so low, so tender, so entreating, held her there. A 
spasm, half joy, half anguish, swept through her whole 
being. 

“ Little one," it added, after a moment’s silence, and 
a quiver of regret rang under the words, “ have you so 
soon forgotten ? " 

“ I knew it must be you," she cried, joyfully, springing 
from her knees, the pleasure of seeing him outweighing 


A Visit to the Monastery. 89 

her transitory dread. She offered him both her hands. 
“ I am so glad,” she said, honestly, looking up at him 
with that sweet, childish trust. “ I was so afraid that — 
but oh ! ”— and she started back — “oh, what has hap- 
pened ! ” She looked at him questioningly, her eyes 
dilated with horror, her hands fallen lifeless in his. 

The dress he wore was the same as the other 
monks. 

“ I trust nothing very terrible has occurred,” he 
answered calmly. “ What is it you fear ? ” 

“ I understand now,” she gasped, “ how you are his 
brother,” and she turned from him, so he should not see 
her tears. “ You are a priest .” 

He laughed a low, amused laugh ; not at all like a mem- 
ber of that holy order should have done. “ And is that 
very dreadful ? ” he asked. 

“ It is horrible ! ” she exclaimed, passionately ; “ it is 
awful ! How could you ? ” 

“ It is really not a difficult operation, ” he said. “ At 
least I did not find it so.” 

“ But when was it ? When did it happen ? ” she per- 
sisted. 

“ When did what happen, little one ? ” 

“ When did you do this horrible thing ? When did you 
become a priest ? You were not so last night.” 

He would like to have flattered himself he detected 
much sorrow in her voice. 

“ I believe I am exactly the same, with the exception 
of my outer raiment,” and he smiled quietly to himself. 
“ Then, too, I have sacrificed my mustache ; that is 
the extent of the change, I assure you,” he replied ser- 
iously. 

“ Ah ! yes,” she said, slowly, “ I see it all now. This 
morning you were admitted into the brotherhood. You 


9 ° 


A Moral Sinner. 


would have spent last night alone with that dying peasant, 
had I not dragged you to the ball. There you took one 
last look at all you were giving up. I wondered why 
you did not dance; why you were so sad. Oh ! how could 
you leave it all ? Think, only think what you have lost.” 
She gazed at him pityingly. 

As she had explained it all so satisfactorily to herself^ 
he merely bowed his head in assent. 

“ What I hope to gain in its place, is infinitely more 
precious than what I lose,” he answered, softly. 

“ Do you mean heaven ? ” she asked, in an awe-struck 
manner. 

“Yes — heaven upon earth,” he replied, earnestly. 
“ Something I have longed for many days.” 

“ You must have been very wicked,” she said, sadly. 
“ But you do not look unhappy.” 

“Yes, I have been very wicked,” he admitted, humbly ; 
“ and I have been sorely punished ; but I am not 
unhappy now.” 

“ I do not understand,” she said, in a dazed way. “ I 
thought all monks were miserable.” She turned suddenly 
to listen. “ Here they all are ; I must go. Good-by. I 
am very, very disappointed to have found you in this 
way. I feel you are worse than dead.” 

He felt for a single moment the pressure of her cold 
little hand ; then she was gone, and he was left 
alone with the memory of the sob he heard as she 
passed out of the chapel. 


CHAPTER X. 


RETROSPECTION. 

" O folly ! folly ! the froth of vanity, the attribute of 
man and beast. Which have I been — more foolish or 
more wicked ? A woman’s capricious nature, can it 
ever be counted on ? With Percy so ready to care for 
me, why should I long for the admiration of this one 
man ? I remember, when a child, hearing a story of a 
conceited little bantam that once leaned too far over a 
brook, when it wished to say good morning to itself and 
give the pond a chance to see what a pretty chicken it 
was ; but getting its feet wet, it did not find it comfort- 
able ; and, what was still worse, the stupid water never 
stopped to take the least notice of its fine form and 
lovely speckled feathers. Silly bird ! who asked you to 
smile at your own image in the dangerous pool ? Why 
should you complain and call it unkind, because it wet 
your feet instead of smiling back ? Who asked you, 
Florence Andrews, to fall in love with this priest ? 
Heaven knows he did not. No, no ; conceit and vanity 
brought trouble to both you and the fowl. Your folly 
reached its climax when you imagined, because a few 
men admired you, this one was also bound to. It is not 
one whit more surprising that he should take the vow of 
celibacy after meeting you, than before. I am ashamed of 
myself, utterly ashamed. For twenty-four hours I have 
acted like the silliest of school girls. This nonsense 


Q2 A Moral Sinner. 

must be stopped at once, or I shall lose every atom of 
self-respect.” 

This stern mental soliloquy took place that evening 
at dinner. The severity of her self-condemnation was 
entirely due to the fact that Florence suddenly realized 
she had been in a sort of stupor, and that, had her life 
depended upon it, she could not have told one solitary 
action she had performed since leaving the chapel. 
How she met her friends, she did not remember ; her 
coming home ; dressing for dinner ; what she had said 
and done in the interval ; all was a perfect blank. It was 
not like sleep, but death. The awakening was not that 
of the soul only, but of every nerve, every fiber, after an 
unreckoned intermission. 

And what had broken the dream so suddenly ? The 
taste of perdreau truffle, her favorite dish. It had been 
put before her, like many other good things ; uncon- 
sciously she had tasted it ; a second mouthful, and she 
recognized the flavor. Then she knew she was still 
upon earth dining, and that there were others at the 
table, who were probably talking to her, and wondering 
why she was so distraite. The third bit of the delicacy 
impressed her yet more forcibly with the fact that 
she must be in a very wicked state of mind not to be 
enjoying this dish still more. To this savory mentor she 
humbly bowed, and began her mental chastisement. 

When she had finished, it was with some anxiety 
she looked down to see if her gown betokened her 
inwardly perturbed condition. No ; it was a great relief 
to find herself at least decently attired. But to her sur- 
prise, she found a bunch of yellow daisies in her belt. 
“ Oh joy ! Perhaps he had sent them to take the place 
of those she had thrown away.” But alas ! no. Percy at 
that moment commenced thanking her for being “ so 


Retrospection. 93 

awfully good ” as to wear his flowers. She turned to 
him, sweetly receiving the poor boy’s words of gratitude. 

She had found them on her dressing table, and 
mechanically put them on. He did not owe her much, 
for while she smiled at him her heart was sick with dis- 
appointment that the daisies had not come from 
another. 

“ Will you walk a little with me, Florence ? ” Percy 
asked, after dinner. “ I wish to tell you a very sad bit of 
news.” But she was not quite sure of herself as yet, and 
she hesitated. 

“ Won’t you go ? ” he urged, bending tenderly over 
her. “ Florence,” he cried, suddenly, “ I believe you are 
miserable too.” 

She looked up surprised. She did not expect him to be 
so pathetic. With a sort of pitying caress, she laid her 
hand on his arm. She realized then how difficult it would 
ever be for her to feel the love he so ardently desired. 
“ Percy,” she said, slowly ; “ I do feel a little miserable, 
but why should you be so ? how can I help you ? ” 

“ You know the help I long for,” he murmured. “ Will 
you give it me ? ” And he looked at her beseechingly. 

“ Oh Percy ! wait a little while ; wait half an hour. I 
must think first. Then I will come back, and we will take 
a walk ; we will go out by the sea and confess our 
troubles, and try to cheer each other a little.” This 
sounded very strange, coming from Florence. Poor 
child ! she felt as if her heart needed something like a 
cold shower bath, to wash away its wretchedness. But 
Percy knew her so well, he was never surprised at any 
thing she might do. He calmly strolled up and down 
the corridor, patiently waiting her return, made happy 
by her promise to do so. To be sure, it was not flatter- 
ing that she should leave him, merely for the pleasure of 


94 


A Moral Sinner. 


thinking in her own room ; but, as every one said, “ Flor- 
ence was certainly very queer.” 

When Florence reached her room she flung herself 
down before the open window ; there was a close bond 
of sympathy between her and nature ; and here she 
tried quietly to consider the state of her affections. She 
had been bitterly disappointed in her supposed discovery 
at the monastery, and she did not hesitate in admitting it ; 
forgetting, perhaps, that the mystery which overhung 
this man, and his apparent holiness, added an hundred 
fold to his charms. But now a praiseworthy exhibition 
of common-sense redeemed her folly ; she calmly sat 
down and wondered how long her regret was going to 
last, and to what extent it was mixed with chagrin ; and 
arrived at the wise conclusion that something must be 
done to break up this sentimental lethargy. 

Finally, rising, she left her solitary moonlit balcony, 
and entering the room went to her dressing-table. On it 
was a grand confusion of flowers, laces, a little innocent 
powder, and a great quantity of unctuous ointments and 
sweet-smelling perfumes. In one corner were a number 
of beautifully jeweled rings, strung unfeelingly on a 
common ordinary lacet de corsage , lying modestly 
between a two franc mirror and a chintz pin-cushion. 
Rings were the only jewels Florence cared for, and all 
her friends had contributed to her collection, until they 
were really famous for their beauty and value. Fine as 
they were, however, she always carried them on a vulgar 
string, or a prosaic piece of tape ; and, with few excep- 
tions, wore them with the greatest impartiality. “ And 
as they are not half as useful as my brush and comb,” 
she once said to Lady Davenport, who was calling her 
careless, “ they shall have no better care.” So one was 
as apt to find her fortune of rings in her sponge bag, or 


Retrospection . 9 5 

the toe of an old slipper, as in her jewel case. Taking 
up the string, she selected a large intaglio, which could 
easily have girded one of Goliath’s fleshy phalanges. 
Touching a spring, the ring opened, and she took out an 
old yellow letter, written in the finest handwriting. “ I 
have indeed fallen sadly,” she sighed, “ when I read my 
venerable aunt’s epistle for comfort.” 

“Beloved Niece: 

“ (Which, believe me, is merely a figure of speech. 
You are my niece ; more’s the pity for you and me ; 
but not in the least beloved, for you are nothing more 
than a howling babe at the moment I write). The gods 
may, however, unkindly allow you to survive that obnox- 
ious period, so I, for the sake of appearances and per- 
haps future benefits, I, your Aunt Belinda, send you a 
ring ; but spare your thanks. I have not an uglier one 
in my collection. When you are grown you will dis- 
cover that the meaner the gift the more advice always 
accompanies it. 

“ You are a girl ! Well, heaven help you ! ’Tis the 
women who carry the hod in this day — but hods don’t 
all weigh the same ; here are a few rules to make them 
lighter : 

“1st. Cultivate your mind ; a woman’s great danger lies 
in her heart being large and her soul small. 

“ 2d. Never consider any but your own comfort (which 
advice, if you are a good girl, you will not follow). 

“ 3d. If you are foolish enough to love (every woman’s 
pitfall) don’t believe all that the man tells you, for in that 
imbecile condition you are as blind as a bat, and can’t 
see that perchance he is the veriest rascal that the land 
holds. 

“ 4th. Never love first, or you ruin your chances as well 
as having the man’s contempt. 


9 6 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ 5th. In your quarrels (and the devil may send you 
plenty) always be the injured one, for if you are not, the 
opponent will, and thereby gain untold advantage. 

“ 6th. Never waste your time on unprofitable work, or 
people, for the years slip by quicker than you think. 

“ 7th. Never throw away your social position for a fort- 
night in a calves’ paradise that will not last. When you 
marry, think if you are likely to be friends at fifty as well 
as lovers at twenty. Have as little as possible to do with 
your relations, and avoid intimacies, remembering the 
wise old prayer, ‘ Lord, keep me from them whom I 
trust ; for from them in whom I do not trust I will keep 
myself.’ 

“Your dutiful aunt, who cares for no recognition in 
either this or the next world, if it be our misfortune to 
meet.” 

Florence finished this legacy of words with a happy lit- 
tle laugh ; her mood was entirely changed. 

“ There, Aunt Belinda,” she exclaimed, “ I am cured of 
my folly for the present, at least; no one is going to 
repine after reading your letter, which attacks sentiment 
in such a cold-blooded manner.” 

It is marvelous with what facility mankind poultices 
his battered affections, and with what creditable success 
he is rewarded. 

After putting away her letter on which had fallen a few 
unaccountable tears, the girl went back to Percy, who felt 
he had waited hours, not minutes. 

The moon was high in the heavens by this time ; its 
silvery light tenderly caressing and softening the sharp 
outlines of our every-day world. The long, deep shadows 
gave a mystic loneliness to the scene, while the never- 
ceasing rush of the ocean seemed a glorious Te Deum 
sung by nature, in its greatest thankfulness to God. They 


Retrospection . 97 

walked up and down, silently watching the sand, with its 
restless fringe of sea. They knew each other too well to 
feel they must speak. The time had passed when it was 
necessary to be entertaining. 

“ I am going away to-morrow,” Percy said at last ; 
“ my father is very ill ; he wishes to see me once again — 
before he — goes.” 

“Before he goes! You do not mean he is — is — 
dying? ” gasped Florence, standing quite still, her hands 
clasped tightly on his arm, her face raised anxiously to 
his. “ He is only just ill ? That ' is what you mean, 
Percy ? ” 

“ No, Florence, I am going home to say good-by for 
the last time,” he replied, with a half sob, “ and God 
grant that I may not be too late.” 

Poor boy ! he was very miserable. 

“ If we had not gone to vespers this afternoon,” she 
said, regretfully, “ you might now be on your way to 
England. How sorry I am I proposed it. And now it 
may, indeed, be too late.” 

“ Yes, it may be too late. I had a presentiment that 
visit to the chapel would do none of us any good. I felt 
I was endangering something very precious ; but such 
warnings are so deucedly absurd in a man I would not 
listen to them, and now heaven only knows how dearly I 
may pay for it.” Had he but known the full danger of 
that visit he would have been still more alarmed. 

“ Oh, Percy ! is there nothing I can do for you ? ” 
Florence cried passionately. “ I should so love to comfort 
you a little.” And, for the first time she flung her arms 
about him. “ Percy, Percy, tell me, how can I help 
you ? ” 

“ Only love me a little, my darling,” he murmured 
gently, as he kissed the beautiful face, fairer in the moon- 


gs 


A Moral Sinner. 


light, with its look of despair and sympathy. “ Love 
me, and it will help me bear my trouble bravely, no mat- 
ter how terrible it may be.” 

Then for a time he forgot the morrow. Before they 
parted she had promised without condition to be his wife. 
But hating the thought that she might have deceived him, 
she told him gently how she had met some one else whom 
she believed it would be possible to love, but he did 
not belong to their world, so the danger was passed. 
And Percy, in his great content, forgave the shadowy 
man, who might have robbed him of this hour. And 
now, with no secret between them, they were both happy. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

It is quite supposable that when a girl becomes 
engaged she feels much augmented interest in herself, 
which must be delightful, particularly as she acquires 
a staid respectability in the eyes of her friends. She 
loses that petty uncertainty which is believed to cling to 
every sister, until some grand, noble, generous man, 
considerately asks her to be his mate. It is not a great 
end to live for, but it is romance, it is sentiment, and for 
that let us be truly thankful. All of which Florence was 
not undergoing, as she has already almost forgotten her 
engagement. 

The next morning Percy took an early departure. But 
much as she cared for him, she did not rise one-half hour 
sooner to bid him farewell. 

Hers was a calm, cool, contemplative affection — by far 
the most comfortable kind. 

She honestly imagined herself deeply in love. But 
love is really more enjoyable in the abstract ; or it is less 
ideal in reality ; and she felt not a little relieved to think 
the high tension of last night was not to be continued 
just at present. 


Retrospection . 99 

“ She was fond of Percy, and would be faithful.” Poor 
little girl ! She forgot that love born of pity, or disap- 
pointment, will not long stand the cruel strain of absence ; 
the wear and tear of other interests. 

In every community the few only are clever ; the rest 
follow their lead, seldom rude or inquisitive enough to 
question “ why ? ” So Percy dropped out of the cir- 
cle, and the others, although none of their good parents 
were threatened with an early demise, felt it was time 
they too should leave ; and they left. 


CHAPTER XI. 


PRECIPITATION. 

To crawl is stupid laziness, if we are endowed with 
strength to do more. Walking — the blessing, the pre- 
rogative of man alone — is so ordinary that we have ceased 
to be grateful for the privilege ; but leaping, under all 
circumstances, is exhilarating, even classical, in its asso- 
ciation. 

Let us leap. 


CHAPTER XII. 


CINTRA. 

Away in Portugal, in the garden of one of those exquis- 
ite quintas, covered over with the clinging passion-vine, 
gorgeous fuchsias, and giant heliotropes (as we never 
see them here) peeping out from among the long-endur- 
ing cypress, and the gnarled and knotted cork tree — on 
the highway of Cintra, in this garden, were seated a man 
and a girl, forgetting for a moment all the beauty and 
splendor nature had placed around them ; for we are 
sometimes so happy that we find ourselves ungrateful to 
the minor causes of our pleasure. 

To Cintra, which is all a garden, with its hills, its 
mountains, its walls overgrown with the hydrangea, and 
its hedges of geraniums, which throw long shadows on 
the dusty roads, offering to the weary traveler a kind 
embrace ; to Cintra, with its living works of a dead 
age, which Southey tells us “ is the most blessed spot in 
the habitable globe ”, Lady Davenport had gone some 
months after her return from France. And in the gar- 
den of the cottage she had taken sat Florence and 
Clarence Thornberry. 

But he was not Clarence Thornberry to her, but Father 
Drelincour, who in his clerical garb came every day to 
give her a certain lesson in the religious history of 
Spain ; for she had come to Cintra to study, as well as 
enjoy its charming climate. But besides this, she was 


102 


A Moral Sinner. 


learning another lesson ; the many-times-told tale ; he 
was trying to teach her to care. 

The morning’s task was over, but it was very lovely 
there, under the Moorish archway, with a little stream 
winding leisurely along at their feet, over its rocky bed. 
They remained long seated there, talking as friends talk 
when their friendship is old. 

“ But if there be no future,” said Florence, who had 
been speaking of the sad fate of Inez de Castro, and the 
doubtful probability of her meeting Don Pedro in para- 
dise, “ if we are to be annihilated, why not have our chief 
object in life pleasure ? ” 

“ Because,” answered Clarence, “ thank God, there is 
a chance we may be saved, and the most degraded cling 
to that consoling hope. How many of us wickedly allow 
ourselves to presume upon divine forgiveness ! ” 

“ But what is wrong to one is not wrong to another,” 
she continued. “ How can one heaven do for all ? ” 

“To God there is a comparative goodness ” said Clar- 
ence, with an earnestness the world would have thought 
strange in him. “ He weighs our sins according to our 
lights. Why do some women never err ? Why are they 
always moral ? Because they are never tempted. And 
many men are honorable, because they would gain noth- 
ing by being otherwise. And many of the souls we, in 
our conceit, imagine less pure than our own, will come 
forth fairer, less sullied with unpardoned evil, in that 
great day of judgment.” 

“ But suppose we are to perish eternally when we pass 
out of this life ; if the race is only immortal, not the indi- 
vidual,” asked Florence, “ then is life worth living ? ” 

“ I remember when I first heard that idea,” sighed 
Clarence, “ it stunned me ; it seemed so probable. How 
could I have been so blind, I thought; I am of no conse- 


Cintrcu 


103 


quence. Why, the petals of that rose exist only to help 
make the rose ; and the rose itself lives but a short hour, 
and it does only a trifle to beautify the summer ; and 
that summer soon passes away, and is forgotten in those 
that follow. It is a scheme, and I am but the least mite 
toward its fulfillment. My life, which is all to me, is noth- 
ing in reality. As an individual soul, I do not exist. I 
merely occupy a little gap, which, if vacant, would not 
even be noticed. I am not as much as the petal, for it 
is good and beautiful ; it fulfills its duty. And this is 
life. And for this the world was made, the heavens crea- 
ted, men cheated by useless aspirations. It is a heart- 
less scheme, which is to benefit no one, and in which the 
many suffer. No, it is not so, I felt ; it can not be so 
cruel. God sacrificed His Son, He lives, and loves us, 
and only a few are good and great enough to catch the 
faintest glimpse of His mercy. Then, my life ran on in 
peace, content with nature, satisfied there was some 
good in all mankind, and that, in time, if I might learn 
to understand the infinite kindness of my Creator I 
should not have lived in vain.” He stopped. Never 
before had his faith been put in words; and they were 
now addressed to Florence ; she understood him. 

“ I know the weariness you felt,” she said, looking up 
at him; the mental nausea you suffered. What am I ? 
you ask. What is life ? What is God ? And the answer 
comes rushing through your brain : Nothing, nothing, 
nothing. Oh, it is horrible ! ” 

“ And still, during all our moral warfare,” continued 
Clarence, looking earnestly at her, “ we are very ordinary, 
very calm, very polite to our neighbors ; no one knows 
of our skepticism ; we are ashamed of it ; but, alas ! are 
we not more ashamed of our growing Christianity ? ” 

“ True,” murmured Florence, sadly, “ we are all cow- 


104 


A Moral Sinner . 


ards ; all afraid of the world’s ridicule ; and when I think 
of what miserable hypocrites we are to one another, 
there is a measureless comfort in feeling with God there 
is no use in trying to deceive.” 

Would they ever have talked so in London ? Can we 
speak honestly of our most sacred feelings in the gassy 
atmosphere of the smoldering hangings of Society ? 

A few months of the quiet, uneventful Cintra life had 
brought these two very near together, particularly as 
Florence still considered Clarence a priest. It made 
him different from other men, throwing a sort of halo 
about him, which divided him from her world, separated 
him from its follies and temptations. Their friendship 
had grown more ideal than we usually find in this en- 
lightened day. She was still unconscious, and he for 
the time forgot it was the old hackneyed malady, Love. 

There is but one link gone, a few pages missing. One 
often likes to skip through a book and look ahead, and 
while they go in to luncheon, we must go back, and fasten 
the chain together. 

******** 

Lady Davenport returned to London, after her visit 
to France. She always found herself there at the 
end of every journey, whether she traveled in a circle or 
otherwise. She might imagine she wished to see Ethio- 
pia, but, ten miles from London, that city would become 
her real destination, although she might travel back by 
the way of Africa. She bored herself for months in 
other countries, for the mere gratification of returning 
home; for she loved London, with its fogs and smoke, as 
a mother loves her child, even when its little hands are 
dirty ; and to it she always came back for a mental 
recuperation. 

Nothing remarkable happened. But nothing can hap- 


Cin/ra. 


i°5 

pen now to surprise any one very much ; we have given 
up trying. 

One day, a horrible day outside, Florence was sitting 
in a pretty morning room in Lady Davenport’s house in 
town, before a huge open fire. She had just put down a 
scrawl from Percy, which had arrived the night previous, 
and which she had not succeeded in deciphering. 

“ If he would only make a few copies of one of his 
best semi-weeklies, and send them at regular periods/' 
she thought, “ I should not be obliged to squander such 
a quantity of time over the particular love-wording of 
each individual epistle. I do wonder if my letters are 
as stupid ? ” she soliloquized, quite modestly. “ Well, 
they are as short as possible — about the quarter of one of 
his — and I am a woman, too.” And she pulled her chair 
nearer the fire, taking up her banjo, at which she dili- 
gently set to work. 

Some time passed before Lady Davenport, returning 
from one of her many charitable visits, entered the 
room. 

“ Dear one,” said Florence, not looking up, “ do come 
here and help me, I can not get my banjo in tune. It is 
your beastly climate that does not suit it.” 

“ I beg of you, do not disparage the climate ; admit, 
rather, that it is the fault of the instrument ; but even it 
I should like to try to tune.” And Clarence Thornberry 
appeared above and behind Lady Davenport. 

“ My dear child,” she exclaimed, “ do not look so sur- 
prised. This is an old friend of mine, Father Drelincour, 
who tells me he met you in France. To be honest, I 
never saw him before in his priestly regimentals ; but he 
is charming enough to even outweigh this obnoxious 
paraphernalia.” After which prolonged introduction 
she went away to prepare for luncheon. 


io6 


A Moral Shiner. 


When she returned, Father Drelincour was playing a 
Spanish serenade on a well-tuned banjo. 

“ But if you only knew how ludicrous it was to see 
you, in your clerical apparel, playing that banjo/’ Flor- 
ence was saying. “ The incongruity is worthy an Amer- 
ican.” 

“You remember,” he replied, very low, “ I have not 
always worn this raiment.” 

“ Yes, I remember,” and for some unknown reason she 
blushed. 

Soon luncheon was announced. 

“ Florence,” Lady Davenport said, across the table, 
smiling benignantly on them, “ I have stumbled on a 
most delightful plan. Your father’s birthday is not far 
off ; what is it to be ? ” she asked, in apparently the most 
irrelevant manner. 

Florence sighed. “ I suppose a treatise on the Zoanthus 
Sociatus, its feelings and moral sensibility. You know,” she 
said, turning to Clarence, “ my father believes that our 
culture begins in the next world where it ends in this, 
and that our position in the future entirely depends upon 
the value of our brains. So you can understand,” she 
added, in an apologetic manner, “ how anxious I am to 
be able to converse intelligently with him there.” 

“ Quite natural,” replied Lady Davenport. “ If one 
does not see much of their relatives in this world, they 
wish to in the next ; and, as disagreeable people are not 
supposed to enter the kingdom of heaven, it may be 
rather a pleasant arrangement.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Clarence, speaking to Florence ; “ you 
take up a new language, or write a pamphlet, or do some- 
thing very intellectual for his birthday gift. Well, I 
think it a very charming and sensible way for a girl to 
please her father.” 


Cintra . 


107 

“ But this is the most interesting part of my plan,” 
interrupted Lady Davenport, never allowing herself to 
be long ignored. “ I have just received a letter from 
your father, Florence ; he has a new theory ; he intends 
proving the Spaniards the oldest European nation. I 
do not know but he believes we all descended from the 
Spanish mackerel. However, he looks forward to discuss- 
ing the subject with you in paradise, and requests you to 
write a treatise on the Spanish Church in Spanish. So I 
have decided to take a cottage in Cintra, as that would 
be rather a nice place for you to study up that topic, par- 
ticularly as Father Drelincour happens to be going there, 
and might possibly be of some assistance to you.” And, 
in every sense of the word, Lady Davenport went back 
to her mutton. 

Florence could not have told whether she was pleased 
or not. 

Looking at her, Clarence said, beseechingly, “ Do be 
good and kind enough to say you are- glad we are to be 
in Cintra together, even if it be the basest flattery.” 

“ Father Drelincour,” she answered, slowly, “forgive 
me ; but at this moment I can not tell you whether I am 
more glad or sorry.” 

“ Now,” said Lady Davenport, suddenly rising, “Pere 
Drelincour, I am going to leave you to Florence’s tender 
mercies, as I have a splitting headache, which I must rid 
myself of before six, as I dine out this evening. Au 
revoir ,” and she went away. So again they were alone. 

Silently they returned to the morning-room. Florence 
went to the window, pulled aside the heavy hangings, 
lounged indolently on the broad low seat, amusing her- 
self at the expense of the azaleas, which she pulled off, 
one by one. It was a beautiful picture, the girl half 
hidden there among the flowers. 


A Moral Sinner . 


108 

“ You are wondering why your tender mercies are to 
be wasted on so stupid a person as myself,” Clarence 
asked, at length, standing before the great wood fire, his 
hands clasped behind him, watching her with a strange 
look of earnestness. 

“ No,” she lazily answered ; “ I was wondering which 
was the best way to begin. How do women usually enter- 
tain you ? ” 

“ With their sins,” he replied. 

“ Oh ! of course ; I forgot ; you see them generally at 
confessional ; and how much more interesting you must 
find a woman’s faults than her virtues,” she said, looking 
out of the window. 

“ It depends upon how good or how bad she may be,” 
he replied, much amused at her assumed indifference. 

“ What a quantity of indigestible moral bonbons you 
must feast on,” she said, jerking off two azaleas. 

“ Fewer than you imagine,” he answered. “ Women are 
usually wicked, if*ever, in their youth ; but they seldom 
realize it, or repent, until their old age ; and it is more 
difficult to pardon the old than the young.” 

“ They are only stale bonbons then, after all,” said she, 
smiling at him. 

“ But we should not complain. What would be the 
result if we were all good ? You remember what Bulwer 
says about every profession, however exalted, preying 
upon the sins and foibles of mankind, not his virtues.” 

“ Yes, I have often thought of that,” she said, much 
interested ; “ it is very deplorable, but every thing, in 
some way, depends upon the weakness of our neighbors. 
We are put in this world, and the majority live happy 
lives. Why are we not content with our surroundings 
just as they are ? It is ridiculous to regret Eden, and 
Eve’s inquisitive folly.” 


Cintra . 


109 


“ Poor Eve ! But if she had not erred, would beauti- 
ful cities have been reared ? Would music have come 
into existence ? Where would be the great schools of 
learning and of art ? Would there be such pleasures as 
yachting ? and London seasons ? and traveling on the 
continent ? I think Eve herself was the most severely 
punished for her luckless act, and after all, remember, it 
was a craving for learning, a fault which, even in this 
day, makes not a few of us most miserable,” he stopped 
suddenly. “ Pardon me,” he said, going toward her, 
“ I forgot these things could not amuse you. The posi- 
tion of a priest is so peculiar. What can I say to inter- 
est you ? I am a man, and still I can never occupy an 
important place in the life of any woman.” 

“ Really, your paradoxical condition never struck me 
before. It is very sad,” and her voice was full of pity. 

“ I regret I opened your eyes ; but believe me, I would 
leave off boring you now, if it were not raining so 
hard,” and he too, comfortably arranged himself in the 
window seat. 

“ Do not apologize, then ; you are merely the result of 
bad weather. Nature is the cause of our mutual 
affliction, let us growl at her,” she said, carelessly. 

“ Indeed, I can do nothing but bless nature,” he 
replied, bending toward her. 

“ You shall not surpass me in amiability ; I will join 
you. You like this window and me,” she added, “bet- 
ter than a wet walk, and I like your society better than 
my own. We both have good taste, that is all.” 

“ You are too kind.” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, stifling an imaginary yawn ; “ any 
thing, any body is a godsend a day such as this. But,” 
and she turned to him quickly, “ a little while back you 
were abominably rude.” It was no use ; she could not 


10 


A Moral Sinner. 


talk to this man as if she did not enjoy it, and she 
determined to take refuge in quarreling with him. 

“ And how ? May I ask ? ” 

“ You calmly insinuated that the vows of celibacy are 
quite sufficient to render a man obnoxious to all women." 

“ Ah ! you are quick to detect one’s feelings,” he said, 
much pleased. 

“ No, I am not. I only hate to be placed in the cate- 
gory of aspirants to marriage.” 

“ It would not be wicked.” 

“ No, but it would be lowering.” 

“ Well, forgive me again,” he said smiling. “ We 
always judge the delightful many by the disagreeable 
few ; and if a small number of women are foolish and 
frivolous enough to wish to marry, having the loudest 
voices, they give that reputation to all.” 

“ I assure you, for your comfort,” Florence replied, 
earnestly, “ women, like men, admire any thing beyond 
their reach, and a man is much more agreeable when they 
know he can not marry them. The silly sentimentality 
of love is escaped, and the sincerity of friendship is there 
in its place. That is why we are generally so fond of 
our friends’ husbands.” 

The burning logs on the hearth still burned ; the rain 
outside still rained, and for awhile all was quiet. What 
was the use of these many words ? They were not inter- 
ested. Each was thinking of another time. 

* * * * * * 

“ Why did I never see you again ? ” he asked, suddenly. 
“ I waited a long time.” 

“ We went away two days after,” she answered very 
low. “ I was glad. I had been disappointed.” 

They looked at each other ; it was not strange to 
them that each knew to what the other referred. 


Cintra. 


hi 


“You were disappointed? you really cared ? Thank 
you ; I am so glad." He leaned toward her, waiting for 
her to say more ; but she was silent. He took up her 
banjo, and played a low melody of smiles and tears. 

When he had finished, he tenderly put down the 
instrument. “ Tell me,” he said, gazing at her wist- 
fully, “ why were you disappointed ? ” 

“ I was disappointed,” she began firmly, “because — 
because ” — her cheeks were burning with excitement — 
“ because I was unhappy for — for Percy Garritson, who 
was obliged to return home.” She commenced bravely ; 
she ended with a little gasp. . 

“ Ah — ! ” and Clarence rose and went to the fire. 
“ It is growing late,” he said, coldly. “ I shall leave you 
there among the flowers, and go out in the storm. Good- 
by, little one. Take care of your banjo, I shall hope to 
see you and it at Cintra.” 

The chain is complete. They met at Cintra. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE LESSON LEARNED. 

Percy’s father was dead, and he was now traveling in 
Germany with his mother. Their sad affliction had pre- 
vented his engagement with Florence being announced. 
And she hefself had never referred to it as an established 
fact, even to Lady Davenport ; it was not particularly 
amusing, why should she speak of it ? She always, even 
from a little girl, had a horror of tiring her friends with 
her own private affairs. 

Lady Davenport, therefore, ignorant of Florence’s 
promise to Percy, felt no compunctions of conscience, 
when she assisted Clarence in his pour suit amureuse. 

They had been two months at Cintra ; and now the 
beginning of the end was very near. For a man and a 
girl, who had dreamed of each other after the first meet- 
ing, to be together, as they had been, for so long a time, 
without one word of love, is scarcely possible ; but so it 
was, until this afternoon. 

They had gone for a walk, and on their way stopped 
for the evening mail ; and now they were sitting on the 
broken stairway leading to an old Moorish chateau, hidden 
almost by time and ivy. 

“Why do men annoy one another with lengthy 
epistles ? ” sighed Clarence, tearing into bits his last 
infliction, “ and why, when I am physically out of the 
world, should rumors reach me of Percy Garritson’s 


The Lesson Learned. 


1 r 3 

engagement ? What interest have I in it ? All men have 
to be sacrificed on the hymeneal altar sooner or later.” 

“ You know him ? ” asked Florence, hastily. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And the woman he is engaged to ? ” 

“ No.” 

Florence turned away. A night bird was hovering in 
the ivy just behind her. 

Clarence lighted a cigar. It is not customary for a priest 
to smoke, but he was not a customary priest, and Florence 
was not well versed on the subject. 

“ Are you acquainted with the fortunate young person?” 
he inquired lazily. He did not care very mftich to know. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ He is to be pitied, poor fellow.” 

“ And the girl ? ” he asked. 

“ She is to be even more pitied,” she answered, huskily. 

“ Why ? ” It grew more interesting. 

“ Why ? Because she has made a mistake,” replied Flor- 
ence, passionately. “ She can never, never be happy with 
him.” 

11 How is that ? I know Percy very well ; he is a charm- 
ing fellow ; I see no reason why he should not satisfy any 
woman. Tell me, little one, why do you predict unhappi- 
ness ? ” 

She did not answer. 

“ The first time he attracted my attention,” Clarence 
continued, “ was on your account. Your two hands were 
held in his, like this,” and he took her hands tenderly, 
“ for full ten minutes, and you, I could have sworn, were 
happy, and I, who had not even met you then, was 
mortally jealous.” 

She hardly seemed to hear him, and never thought of 


A Moral Sinner . 


1 14 

asking when he had seen her with Percy. She was look- 
ing far away, trying to realize her position ; how to let 
Clarence know to whom Percy was engaged. 

“ Why should this girl not be happy ? ” he repeated. 
“ You were." 

“ Because she does not love him." 

“ And you did ? ” he exclaimed, dropping her hands. 

“ No, no,” she groaned ; “ but I imagined I did. “ Oh ! 
Father Drelincour ! ” she cried, “ I know this girl; I know 
just how she feels ; give me your advice for her. What 
should she do ? Make him miserable, by refusing to marry 
him, or destroy her own peace for the sake of his happi- 
ness ? ” She looked imploringly at him. 

“ He is too good a fellow for a woman to marry him 
out of pity,” he answered, slowly. “ Does she care for 
some one else ? ” 

“ No — ! oh ! no,” she hastily replied ; “ no one else.” 

“ Well, love is a strange thing. I know a man who 
adored a woman’s picture for two years. He was very ill 
at the monastery I was in. He gave me his shrine to 
preserve in case he died. He valued it too highly to have 
it fall into ruthless hands. And that was love.” Clarence 
was fond of soliloquizing. “ And now I would kill the man 
who dared attempt to take it from me, were it the owner 
himself. And that, too, is love. And it is only for a 
woman’s picture after all. Who can define the meaning of 
that term ? To its door may be laid our greatest joys and 
our worst evils.” He talked, apparently, to amuse himself. 

“ What was this man’s name ? ” asked Florence. There 
is some terrible fascination in a question to whose answer 
one feels a previous disagreeable knowledge. 

“ His name was Clarence Thornberry, and I have taken 
a vow to do him the greatest kindness one can do another. 
Here is his treasure. Do you cqre to see it \ He took 


The Lesson Learned. 


“5 

from an inner pocket an antique case of copper, heavily- 
crusted with jewels — a relic, probably, that one of his fore- 
fathers had taken from the Saracens. Florence took it 
mechanically. She knew what she would find inside, 
and hesitated a moment before opening it. 

“ Clarence Thornberry never knew this girl,” she said, 
at length, “ and he lowered her by pretending to care, 
when he knew only that her face pleased him.” 

“ You are unjust,” he answered, indignantly, as he put 
out his hand for the picture. “ Why do we love Raphael’s 
Virgins? Because of a beautiful mouth? or a. perfect 
nose ? No, because the goodness, the purity of their 
souls, looks out and makes us reverent.” 

“ Your logic is sublime in behalf of the virgins,” she 
said, smiling bitterly, “ but the picture there, in its gor- 
geous case, was not painted by Raphael. If he had been 
the artist, it might have been worthy a two years’ adora- 
tion. As it is, pardon me, if I doubt the admiration being 
sincere.” 

“ Clarence Thornberry did love you with his whole 
soul ; you treated him with childishness, beneath the 
dignity of any woman ; if he had died there in France, 
you would not have shed one tear.” 

“ No, not one tear. I have little affection, and no 
superfluous tears, to waste on exceptionably handsome 
men ; and I should not have imagined you would 
approve of so foolish a weakness.” 

“ You are very cruel ; a woman should not despise a 
man, because he admires her face,” he said softly. 

“ No, except when he calls it love.” 

“ Ah ! will you ever know that ? ” 

“ For him ? Never ! ” 

“ Oh ! Florence ! If / could but teach you ! ” he 
exclaimed. 


A Moral Sinner . 


i 16 

“ Father Drelincour ! ” 

“And I will,” he went on excitedly, drawing her 
toward him. Florence, you may not care yet ; you may 
now be shocked ; but the time will come when you shall 
know all, and forgive me. But your love I must have : 
in this whole world it is the only thing I value. Once I 
dreaded, feared Percy Garritson. But now you are all 
mine, mine. Tell me, my little one, can you ever love 
any other now ? Do not call me Father Drelincour, that 
puts me far from you. I, too, have that obnoxious name ; 
Florence, call me Clarence, and here alone in this beauti- 
ful world of our own, whisper that you love me ; just 
once.” 

At last she knew why she was so happy, living quietly 
here in Cintra, and the discovery startled her for a 
moment. Then she looked up ; he did not speak, but his 
eyes told her again, all the grandeur of his love, all his 
trust and faith in her. 

“ Have you nothing to say ? ” he cried, regretfully ; 
“ then good-by,” and he turned to leave her. The sun 
went down. The light seemed to go out of her life. 

Clarence ! ” she called softly after him. “ Clarence, 
I love you ; and to-night I will write to Percy Garritson, 
and tell him, I can never be any man’s wife.” 

* * * * * * * 

" The Spanish treatise on the Spanish Church ” was 
nearly finished. The delightful visit in Cintra was draw- 
ing to a close. The last month had been a dream, a per- 
fect dream of happiness, which fate is good and kind 
enough to give to some of us. To know she was loved, 
was all Florence could desire. The prosaic idea of mar- 
riage never even encroached upon her bliss. She lived 
for the present moment ; she forgot the future. 

Clarence had indeed been greatly shocked to discover 


The Lesson Learned. 


ii 7 

her engagement, but as she had broken it immediately, 
he could not long be angry. It is not a difficult thing 
to be pleased when we are sure that there is a more 
unfortunate rival somewhere lamenting his ill luck. 
“ And they had both been so young ” he told himself. 
He felt, sorry, very sorry, for Percy. “ But Percy liked 
shooting and dancing. Sometime he would recover, and 
have the pleasure of falling in love again.” 

It was a lovely morning. They were in the little 
music room ; the windows were thrown open, showing all 
the luxuriant beauty without. She was playing, caress- 
ing the piano keys, with her beautiful fingers, and he, 
leaning above her, was singing the last romanza in Favor- 
ita ; it is so easy to sing when one loves. His voice 
echoed gladly through the rooms, making them ring with 
the passion of the music. 

“ I never understood before all its meaning,” he mur- 
mured, “and if I had not met you, I should never have 
discovered it.” He leaned forward to look in her 
eyes. 

“ Florence, are you sure you care ? ” 

“ Care ! ” and she turned suddenly to him, with a 
strange, wild expression in her face, he had never seen 
there before. “ You know that I care ; but how is it all 
to end ? ” 

“ Little one, it will never end,” he said, smiling tenderly 
down on her. 

“ We are happy,” she sighed, “ only that we may be 
more miserable.” 

“ No, Florence, we will always be happy now.” He 
gently took her hand. “Trust, cherie , in my love ; it is 
strong ; it will protect you.” Vain boast. 

“ Florence,” called Lady Davenport, “ your letter has 
come.” “ Your letter ” meant Percy’s. She took it ; broke 


1 18 


A Moral Sinner. 


the seal, and read it through, without the least appear- 
ance of emotion. Then handed it to Clarence, in a hard, 
dead way. 

“ Take it ; our misery has begun ; I felt it coming while 
you sang. Heaven forgive us ! ” She left him reading 
the letter. 

“And you are false,” it ran. “ Great God ! where am I 
to look for truth ? when ? how shall I regain my faith ? 
I can not curse you, for I love you still ; but I curse 
your wickedness, your treachery, which has stolen my 
religion from me. 

“ Fool ! that I was, to believe in you. Yes, I have 
heard of your in Cintra, with you charming priest. But I 
would not lower you, or lower myself, or our love, by 
questioning you, in my letters. And my reward is — 
heaven knows what ! While I trusted, you deceived. 
When they told me, how he, this holy man, was ever with 
you, walking and driving in the bright sunlight, and the 
soft tender moonlight, supping and dining, always at your 
cottage ; singing to you in his grand, melodious voice ; 
giving Spanish lessons to you, for the sake of propriety ; 
you see, I know it all ; when I heard this, I, idiot that I 
was, swore it was a lie. ‘No,’ I cried, she could not 
stoop so low. Would she let another make love to her, 
when she is all mine? Would she steal a man’s heart 
from his church ? Let an holy priest break his most 
sacred vows, his promises to God for her ? No ! no ! 
Would she, if free, consent to marry a man wedded to 
his faith, his religion ? Would she have him perjure his 
soul for her? No ! Would she break her faith to me, 
for another?’ Never! never! came the answer, she is 
more worthy. Florence, write and tell me it is all false. 
I will so gladly believe you, my darling. It can not be 
true. You are not false. Give me back my faith, my 


The Lesson Learned. 


119 

trust, my all. One little word, and the whole world dare 
not whisper a reproach. 

“ But, if it is true, then, farewell. My soul, my life, 
my future, is dead, cursed by you. In the vilest cities in 
Europe I will soon end my career. If you are false, then, 
there is no heaven to live and hope for.” Here it 
ended. 

Clarence, strong man as he was, staggered to the win- 
dow. The dream was, indeed, broken. Why had his 
mad folly, his wild love, made him forget the horrible 
results which might follow his insane act. 

He could not blame Florence ; she did not realize the 
danger until it was too late. And alas ! now it was too 
late, even to tell her the truth. 

And Percy, poor boy ! what he must have suffered ! 

It was a sad, useless concatenation of circumstances 
which had brought about all this wretchedness. 

That night, Florence wrote two letters. 

“ Percy, you are cruel. I am not false ; I am true ; I 
swear it. So true I can not feel I love you enough to be 
your wife. This, and this only, have I learned from 
Father Drelincour. I bless you for refusing to believe 
vanity could make me stoop to steal a man’s affection 
from his Church. 

“ Good-by ; forgive me, for paining you. I, too, am mis- 
erable. 

“ But, Percy, my dear, dear friend, for your own sake, 
for the sake of your dead father, and living mother, 
believe still in God’s goodness ; and, now, again, fare- 
well.” 

The other was to Clarence. She had not seen him 
since giving him Percy’s letter. 

“ Good-by, forever,” she wrote ; “ I understand now, 
how more than wicked I have been. Go back to France, 


120 


A Moral Sinner. 


and your Church, before it is too late ; your vows are still 
unbroken. I have been happy once ; it is more than I 
deserve. God bless you, and good-by.” 

That same night, with Lady Davenport, Florence 
started for England. 






CHAPTER XIV. 


A HALF HOUR IN A STUDIO. 

It was June ; every body was in town ; the season was a 
particularly brilliant one, and Florence Andrews was 
more beautiful than ever. We are too civilized now, to 
die of broken hearts ; it would be bad form, and we pre- 
fer suffering to being guilty of that heinous weakness. 

She had, this year, the beauty of a woman ; she was 
older, but she was grand ; her loveliness was that which 
dazzles. No one called her now the little Andrews girl, 
and described her as piquant. Her humor had changed 
to wit ; her piquancy, to stately dignity. 

She had never seen Clarence again, although he had 
sought her many times, and in many ways. She was 
afraid of herself, her lack of courage to do right. But 
every week she received a bunch of yellow daisies ; and 
for a few hours, out of the hundred and sixty-eight, was 
happy. She could not hate him for caring still for her. 
It was beyond her power to forbid it. 

Percy was leading a wild, reckless, dissipated life ; 
trying to bury his sorrow in excitement. But Florence 
had never met him since her return. And only now and 
then a stray bit of gossip was wafted to her, of his mad 
career. But he often wasted whole days to get a glimpse 
of her, as she went in or out of her home. 

One day Lady Davenport persuaded her to go with 
her on a visit to the studio of one of her obscure pro- 


122 


A Moral Sinner. 


t£ges. And there she met Lord Thornberry. Was it 
fate ? Was it chance ? 

“ Are you happy ? ” he asked her, as she waited for 
Lady Davenport, who was purchasing whole portfolios 
of worthless trash. 

“ Happy ! ” she sighed, looking at him in a surprised, 
startled way, “ are we ever happy long at a time ? ” Her 
voice grew firmer. “ Whatever it may be, after a time 
the charm disappears ; it burns itself away, and the 
ashes are left ; or it evaporates, and leaves no trace 
behind. I still retain the ashes ; would to heaven there 
was nothing ! ” 

“ Hush, little one, do not slander life and its pleasures 
so severely ; you are too young ; ” his voice was very ten- 
der. “ What have you done to regret so bitterly ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Every act of my life ; and think,” she continued 
hurriedly, “ you, of all the people I know, and care for, 
you are the only one to whom I dare confess this, who 
would understand. I hate myself ; I loathe my past ; I 
dread my future. What have I done ? waltzed a great 
deal, destroyed a man’s faith in God, and broken his 
poor old mother’s heart. A noble record ; should I not 
be proud of it ? ” 

“This is nothing but moral morbidness,” he exclaimed ; 
“ little one, you are not so bad. I have known how you 
felt, and I have so longed to see and comfort you. You 
are cruel to me, and cruder to yourself. Why do you 
persist in believing you have wronged Percy Garritson ? 
Your very friendship is enough to make a man keep his 
life pure and unstained for your sake.” 

“ Stop ! ” she interrupted him. “ Do not tempt me. I 
am not strong, I long so to believe what you say.” 

“ Does your sorrow lower you ? Do you think that I, 


123 


A Half Hour in a Studio . 

after caring for you, could do one act unworthy of that 
love ? ” He reverently raised her hand. “ To me you are 
one of God’s angels. I owe you love and devotion as 
one of His most beautiful works. Percy, poor boy ! has 
fallen ; the love which should have exalted, has con- 
sumed him, and made him desperate. And you sorrow 
for this ? ” 

He held both her hands. “ How long must I wait ? 
Florence, will you never yield ? Never, again, tell me 
whether you care if I live or die ? ” 

“ Is not my only joy in existence the knowledge that 
you, too, live ? ” she asked, wearily. “ I care for you ; 
yes, I have no strength to hide it. But what is the use 
of confessing it ; it is harder to go back alone ; I shall be 
more unhappy for having you again.” She sank down in 
her chair. 

“ And if I were free, if the chain of Rome were 
loosened, I might have claimed that love ? ” he said, 
breathlessly. 

For a moment she was silent ; then, looking up, she 
slowly said, laying her hand in his, “ Clarence, you know 
me as I am, a weak, a very sinful woman ; do not test 
my love for you; do not think of me as the possible antag- 
onist of your faith. I would not be the rival of your 
religion.” 

“ You are, indeed, too noble,” he exclaimed; “ forgive 
me ; sometime you will understand ; and still, Florence, I 
am so selfish I would have a proof of your regard ; dare 
I ask you to fulfill my very heart’s desire ? you care for 
me ; but this much ? ” he almost groaned in his anxiety 
lest she should refuse this longed-for proof. 

“ Ask,” she said softly, “ for whatever lies in my power.” 

They were alone. Lady Davenport and her artist had 
gone into the next room. 


24 


A Moral Sinner . 


“ Will you,” he said, kneeling before her, “ will you, 
for my sake, know my friend ? for my sake be kind to 
him, let him plead his cause ? Listen to his love, which 
is as deep as mine, and unfettered by any vows. 
Florence, Clarence Thornberry has loved you so long ; 
and I have promised him, that some time, you will let 
him come, and in his own words tell you how faithful he 
has been. You think this strange ; you do not under- 
stand. Florence, may I tell him he is forgiven ? ” 

“Never, never,” she cried passionately. “You of all 
men to advise me to listen to his love ! And you pre- 
tended to care for me! Go, I do not wish to despise you.” 

Lady Davenport was coming back. 

“ Florence, you do not understand,” he murmured, 
hoarsely. 

“ I do not wish to understand,” she slowly replied. 
“ Alas ! I was foolish enough to believe your love mak- 
ing was for yourself.” 

“ It was so. Florence, let me explain,” he entreated of 
her. 

“ That I fear would be too difficult. I shall be con- 
siderate.” 

“ You are more to me than the whole world.” 

“ So I trusted a few seconds ago ; ” and she sighed 
heavily, and rose to meet Lady Davenport ; “ a woman 
always discovers men false, sooner or later, and the 
happiest are they who can remain blind the longest; is it 
not so, Lady Davenport ? ” No one could have guessed 
the torture she was suffering. “ And the most deplor- 
able part,” she went on bitterly, “ is that a woman is 
never invulnerable, whatever her age, or her experience 
may be.” 

Lady Davenport laughed lightly, and wondered if 
Clarence had been flirting harder than usual. And the 


A Half Hour in a Studio . 125 

young artist thought he had never seen such glorious eyes, 
but was a trifle mystified at the wild agony of their 
expression, when the rest of that beautiful face smiled at 
him so calmly. 

“ And now,” she quietly continued, walking slowly 
toward the door, “ I think we have taken enough of 
Father Drelincour’s valuable time, and as many of Mon- 
sieur Creux’ charming pictures as we can possibly 
carry,” which was not unkind, as the carriage was over 
loaded, and they left but three behind them. 

That night Florence went to a ball, and there somebody 
told her that Percy Garritson had been thrown from his 
horse the day before. But, poor devil ! he was so dread- 
fully wild, he might as well die now, as a few years later. 
It could affect no one but his mother, and the next heir. 

* * * * * * * 

When she returned home, she found on her dressing 
table a bunch of yellow daisies, and a note. For a 
moment, she prayed for strength to send it back unopened 
with the flowers. But, alas ! she was weak ; she was a 
woman, and she read it. 

“ You are willfully unjust, believe me, for I swear it ; 
you do not understand. If you yourself are true, if you 
wish- to trust in me, then say I may present Clarence 
Thornberry to you as my dearest friend. This is a little 
thing, but if you care for me, you will consent. It is the 
first, the last request I will ever make of you.” 

That night she did not sleep. The following day, 
toward noon, Clarence received a note. 

“ It has taken me many hours to discover how much I 
care for you. You may bring your friend on Thursday 
at five." 


126 


A Moral Sinner. 


He was happy. His work was done ; her pride had 
yielded. She would be his beautiful countess within 
three months. To-morrow she would know all, and love 
him more for the battle she had lost. 


CHAPTER XV. 


REPARATION. 

It was Thursday, but not yet five. A gloriously 
beautiful afternoon, a sort of gala day with the out-door 
world, when every flower rivaled its neighbor in the gor- 
geousness of its apparel, each, like those wily tempters 
of Proserpine, seeming more lovely than the last. 

Society and her grand, majestic kinswoman, Nature — 
who, must, indeed, be wearied with this careless round of 
gayety, since she witnessed the folly of Eden — filled all 
London, and uncongenial as they appear, they wander 
hand in hand through every hour ; the hollowness 
of the one, screened by the purity and redolence of the 
other. 

The morning Florence had spent in a long ride 
out in the country, accompanied only by a groom. She 
rode too hard, too fast, and talked too little, to find 
many appreciative companions in her early equestrian 
tours. 

And now, she was at home, in her best-loved study, a 
room as charming as herself, furnished by her father, 
with the treasures he had found in the old shops of Con- 
stantinople, or brought from the classic pawndealers of 
Italy ; an epitome of to-day’s triumph, resting on the 
fallen grandeur of a Past. 

The professor’s ambition was, to some time possess a 
private museum, where he might, in half an hour, travel 


128 


A Moral Sinner . 


from the Archipelego to the Sea of Kara, with each 
accompanying delight. Meanwhile, the study was the 
store-house for the accumulating wealth. 

It is not difficult to admire, respect, and even feel a 
deep affection for a father, who regards it a kindness if you 
place in your room, for safe keeping, an Italian sofa of the 
16th century, an oak credence of the time of Francis I., 
a screen with Russian decorations, a walnut armoire, 
carved and ornamented with the ivory heads of Amazons; 
who closes your door with Gobelin tapestry, and places on 
your 19th century mantle Flemish pottery of the time 
of the beautiful Louise de Coligny, and the whitest faience 
from Rouen. 

Here, in this world of her own, where so few were 
allowed to come, Florence was not lying on the four 
hundred years old sofa, but in a large, comfortable ham- 
mock, made only yesterday, giving herself up to that 
unqualified joy of doing nothing. 

When we decide to do something, after a long struggle 
with ourselves, there is a certain unexplained pleasure in 
its anticipation. Whether we glory in our martyrdom, or 
plume ourselves on sweetly having conquered our prej- 
udice, is not. positively known. But it is certainly true, 
that when we have made up our minds to sacrifice our- 
selves, it would be regarded as a great waste of good 
nature were it found to be unnecessary. 

So, Florence, as soon as she had dispatched her answer 
to Clarence, commenced to look forward to the interview, 
if not with pleasure, at least with interest. But it is a 
known fact that women love to martyrize themselves for 
the men they care for. 

“ I shall, of course, always dislike him,” her soliloquy 
began, “ but it will be rather amusing to tell him so, 
candidly, myself. Imagine his having the effrontery 


Reparation. 


129 


to make love to me. It would be like Octavianus pro- 
posing to Cleopatra, or Marat offering to conduct the 
youthful Charlotte in to dinner.” And she laughed, 
thinking how absurd the whole affair was. Her feel- 
ings since yesterday had undergone a complete change. 
“ Yes, I shall always despise him; it is but a test of my 
affection ; but, Clarence Drelincour, do not fear, I shall 
not be fond of your friend; ambition shall not tempt me 
to be unfaithful to your love. It is not so sad to live and 
die alone, if some one has once cared for you. Poor 
Abelard ! poor Heloise ! if they had but been patient.” 
And she rested there a long time, almost weeping over 
the wretched fate of those two ; that miserable union of 
great piety and great wickedness. 

Finally, she left that stringed instrument of laziness ; 
it was near three, and she went away to dress. 

Thank heaven — and necessity — a woman, under almost 
any circumstances, can change her gown ; and it is sel- 
dom that any thing but weak slovenliness or laborious 
profundity prevents her from feeling an interest in it. 

Florence never hurried into her clothes. There was 
no unseemly haste in the way her garments were put on. 
She would read a page or two of Gibbon, while her faithful 
Abigail arranged her hair (she was on the fifth volume); 
think of the grave matters that had entered her head 
with her frivolous hairpins. It was the hour of looking 
over Punch, as well as changing her boots ; she made 
it not a task, but a pleasure, to be completed in twenty 
minutes, or extended to three hours. 

But to-day her toilet was soon ended. Gibbon had 
been uncongenial, Punch not brightened by Du Maurier. 

She wore a long velvet gown bordered with 
black ostrich feathers, making her look like one of 
those sabled princesses of old, the brides of the 
frosty Vikings ; up tight about her throat a nar- 


130 


A Moral Sinner. 


row band of the dark feathers threw out the loveliness of 
her head most strikingly; and, falling over her wrists, the 
soft, yellow lace made her hands appear smaller and more 
delicate than ever. 

The gods are not all dead ; that deformed pigmy Besa, 
has outlived his brothers many a century. A man’s 
heart is often conquered by the beauty of a woman’s 
gown. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said her woman, coming to her dress- 
ing-room just as she was pinning at her waist the bunch 
of daisies, arrived that morning. “Johnson has 
announced a lady to see you.” 

“ Her name ? ” Florence asked, earnestly hoping she 
would not be obliged to see the visitor. 

“ She preferred not giving her name, so Johnson says, 
which he thought very remarkable, as she is a venerable 
dame.” The woman’s vocabulary was far above her sta- 
tion, which is much like having your shoes in a better 
condition than the road you travel. 

“ And has she ever been here before ? ” It was hard to 
yield. 

“ Never ; but mademoiselle is quite safe in seeing the 
lady ; her carriage has a coronet upon it.” The visitor’s 
reputation was established. 

“ Did she ask also for Lady Davenport?” Florence 
inquired, as a last hope. 

“ For you, only, and, besides, her ladyship is not at 
home.” 

“ Very well, I shall have to see her ; probably,” she 
continued to herself, “ some traveling charitable society ; 
but I shall be firm ; I will be in neither a ‘ bazar ’ nor a 
tableau.” 

Soon she left the room ; looked into the study as she 
passed it for a last consoling glance ; she intended bring- 


Reparation . 13 1 

ing Clarence up there. There among her books and 
pictures she hoped to prove to Lord Thornberry and 
Father Drelincour that her life was not all folly. 

Down the stairs she vent, her long skirts trailing 
behind her. She had reached the door. Why did she 
hesitate to enter ? 

Her woman had spoken rightly ; the visitor was a ven- 
erable dame, crowned with that purified loveliness that 
sometimes comes with age. A beautifully majestic 
woman, who might have lived before the short waists of 
the Directory made the noblesse forget they were not 
all grisettes. Florence pushed the door open and entered. 
Her yellow daisies loosened, fell on the sill, and uncon- 
sciously she crushed them with her foot. 

Her stately guest, dressed in the saddest black, rose as 
Florence came forward. 

“ My child, you are surprised at my visit ? " she said, tak- 
ing Florence’s hand, “ particularly as I did not send you my 
name ; you think it very strange, but you will understand. 
You will pardon me, for I am Percy Garritson’s mother." 

Poor girl ! A sickening weakness crept through every 
fiber. To be arraigned before a Spartan tribunal would 
have been less agonizing. 

“ And I, you know, am Florence Andrews," she 
answered, softly, tenderly pressing the hand she held. 
It was indeed a strange position in which to find herself. 
She felt it must be a dream. 

Her visitor seated herself on a lounge, drawing Flor- 
ence to her side ; she watched her for a while with a 
scrutiny almost terrible in its earnestness. 

“You wonder why I should trouble you with a visit? 
An old woman has no right to trespass on a young girl’s 
time. No, no," she said hastily, as Florence would have 
interrupted her, “ I am right ; years ago, when I, too, was 


132 


A Moral Sinner . 


a girl, I felt so many times. Try to forget I am old, dear 
child, for, indeed, I still remember my own youth; that will 
always keep my heart young. You have heard of my 
poor boy’s accident? ” 

“Yes, for the first time, last night, I heard of it.”" 
Florence answered, very low, very softly. She dared 
hardly raise her eyes to this beautiful woman, whom she 
had so injured, whose heart was broken for her poor 
boy’s suffering, which she alone had caused. 

“ And you still wonder why I have come to you?” 
Percy’s mother asked of Florence, with a beseeching ten- 
derness, as if she would crave forgiveness for this dis- 
tressing visit. 

“ No, I do not wonder why you come to me,” the girl 
passionately replied. “ I only wonder why you are so 
kind ; why you are so good as to touch my hand ! Do 
not speak gently to me ; I can not bear it. Do not ask 
me if I understand, and beg forgiveness for this visit. 
Curse me, rather, for you must feel that I deserve it.” 

“ No, my child,” Lady Garritson answered, bending 
over Florence, who had thrown herself on her knees, her 
head buried in her arms, “ I do not curse you ; I have 
no fault to find with you. I love my son, but I am his 
mother. I can not expect you to feel the same. I see 
his faults but forgive them. I can not help it, my affec- 
tion makes me weak.” 

“ And you do not blame me?” Florence exclaimed, 
looking up, hardly understanding what she had heard. 

“ No, I do not blame you. You have tried to do right, 
I believe. I have seen all your letters. Do not accuse 
me of willfully prying into your secrets, but Percy is all 
that is left to me, my only child. Florence, you are dear 
to him ; for that reason you must be dear to me. You will 
not refuse my love ? ” 


Reparation . 


133 


“Yes, I will refuse your love until I am worthy of it.” 
She had risen and stood quietly before her visitor ; her 
voice rang with a courage that thrilled the mother, “ You 
have come to tell me I may yet make some reparation for 
all the misery I have caused. Whatever it be, I promise 
to thank you gratefully for that privilege.” 

“ No, I do not ask you to make reparation, for you 
have done no wrong ; but I have come to you to save 
my son.” Again she took Florence’s hand. 

“ If it be in my power, I am ready.” Poor child ! She 
never imagined what was coming. 

“ Is it true,” asked Lady Garritson, “ that you would 
marry Percy if you believed your love for him were great 
enough ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And there is no one else you hope to marry ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Forgive me for questioning you so rudely, but my 
boy is dying.” It would be difficult to say which of 
these two women suffered more intensely. 

“ You could do nothing I would not forgive,” she 
answered, softly. 

“ Oh, my child ! you are indeed worthy of a better 
man than he. Your goodness tempts me on, makes me 
more willing to confess the object of my visit. I have 
come here to beg on my knees that you will marry Percy, 
and be his friend. I understand you do not feel for him 
that love a woman owes her husband ; but, then, you care 
for no one else. Child ! I know the terrible request I 
am making of you. I do not ask it, as an injured parent, 
whose son’s life has been ruined by love of you. I do 
not ask this sacrifice because I have the right ; but 
because I see you are a noble woman, and I am his 
mother.” She paused ; but Florence made no answer. 


134 


A Moral Shiner. 


“ If you consent,” she went on slowly, “ and he dies, 
your martyrdom will be short, and he will have been 
happy for a little while. If he lives, you will have saved 
both his life and his soul. Florence, if you cared for 
another, I should not have thought of this ; but as it 
is ” 

“ You shall know the truth,” she interrupted, gently, 
firmly resolved to spare herself no pain, “ you shall 
decide his fate. I am fond of Percy, but not in the way 
his wife should care for him. When we were engaged I 
did not realize how different that love should be. But, 
in France, I met some one who taught me what I thought 
I already knew. This was a priest ; ” her voice sank 
unconsciously lower. “ I can never marry him ; will 
never, if you wish it, see him again. You shall decide ; 
the right is yours. I would gladly have been his wife ; 
God willed it differently. I only tell you this because I 
feel that you should know the truth. If by sacrificing 
myself, I can give you back your son, the past may yet 
be redeemed. My life is at your disposal ; it is not worth 
much ; but I am quite willing to follow your bidding, 
whatever it may be.” 

Lady Garritson tenderly took her in her arms. “ My 
child, I am a woman, I understand every thing you have 
told me ; and from my heart I thank you for your confi- 
dences. But I am weak ; I have not the strength to 
refuse your sacrifice. There is but one thing more ” 

“ That is, I should go with you now, at once. Very 
well ; I shall soon be ready. Excuse me for one moment.” 
She did not hear the reply. She hurried from the room ; 
beyond the door she staggered — almost fell. She dared 
not think. Lady Davenport had not returned. There 
was no one to speak to — no one to whom she could say, 
“ good-by 


135 


Reparation. 

She went to her “ study ”, the room where a short time 
before she had been so happy, where she had dreamed of 
Clarence, where she had found the last bunch of yellow 
daisies that morning ; she looked, they had fallen from 
her belt. “ They, too, have deserted me,” she thought. 
“ Good-by,” she cried, “ good-by ! ” It was her last 
farewell to all her former life. 

She went to her escritoire. Clarence woul'd be here in 
one hour ; she must leave him some word. She wrote 
hurriedly for some time ; it was not satisfactory, but she 
had no time to write again. Going to an old credence, 
she tenderly took out her rings — her only wealth. They 
were strung on a yellow ribbon, that had once tied a 
bunch of daisies. She looked at them sorrowfully ; each 
had a history. She slipped from her fingers those that 
she wore at that moment. 

“ He shall have them all,” she said, “ all but the 
intaglio with the letter, and the .little one he gave me 
in Cintra — I can not, oh ! I can not give up that. 
And it is worth so little, it can not be wrong to 
keep it.” 

She rang for her woman. “ Walton,” she said, “ I am 
going out. Father Urelincour and another gentleman 
will call at five. Tell him — be sure and see him yourself 
— that I said there was a small package and a note in the 
study for him, and would he go there and get it ; take 
him yourself. I do not know how long he may remain, 
but that is of no consequence. Do not let him be dis- 
turbed ; he may wish to write an answer.” 

The woman looked surprised. Florence was not usu- 
ally so explicit. “ And Walton, tell Lady Davenport 
that I have gone to a wedding, but not to be worried, as 
Lady Garritson was kind enough to take care of me. 
Perhaps she will understand.” 


136 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ But, mademoiselle ! ” Walton exclaimed, “ you are 
not going to a wedding all in black ? ” 

“ Yes, I am ; the wedding is to be very quiet, the man 
is very ill — dying, perhaps ; Walton, you may tell Lady 
Davenport that, also. Good-by, I may not return to- 
night.” She went a few steps ; then stopped. “ Walton,” 
she said, a beautiful blush suffusing her face, so pale and 
sad. “ I have dropped my flowers somewhere, look for 
them, and be sure to put them in water.” 

Then she went down-stairs. Lady Garritson was 
quite happy, for she had only waited twenty minutes for 
Florence to snap an hundred links that bound her to the 
past. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“ THE IRONY OF FATE." 

The play had been played. The masquerade was 
over. And Clarence Thornberry need never again array 
himself in those sad habiliments, the only substantial 
remains of Father Drelincour. 

Such a lovely day as it was ! and his heart was filled 
with that blissful content which comes when our dearest 
hopes are realized. 

It was the first time his beautiful horses, so well known 
in London, had ever taken him to Lady Davenport’s ; 
for now he went in his own character, went as the world 
knew him, the most brilliant, worldly member of a bril- 
liant, worldly world. 

But they had not seen him much of late, and driving 
through the crowded avenues, it almost appalled him the 
number of people he saluted. “ And do I know the 
names of all these individuals ? ” he thought, “ do they 
care no more for me than I for them ? How selfish we 
all are ! Can I ever thank my good fortune sufficiently 
for allowing my little scheme to work so admirably. To 
think of all these people, not one has ever met me in my 
clerical robes ; it seems hardly possible. For a whole 
year I have been perfectly happy ; yes, happy enough to 
last an ordinarily greedy man a lifetime. Ah ! the 
escapes my disguise must have been blessed with ; how 
often have I been just not discovered. Well, I trust my 


I3» 


A Moral Sinner. 


sublime success will make me a better man. Oh, Flor- 
ence ! Florence ! what would my life be now without 
you ? A blank — a long, empty span of years.” Then 
some one else bowed. “ I believe I really prefer being 
old Drelincour ; one is in no way so interesting, and one 
gets on so much more rapidly. What snobs we all are. 
My beautiful steeds, they are welcoming you, not your 
driver, to-day.” Bowing to the most charming of women, 
in the most charming of bonnets, did not reconcile him 
to the least delay. 

But, although Lord Thornberry knew a great number 
of people very well, few knew him equally so. No one 
presumed to even expect more from him than a passing 
bow ; for his pet theory was to know the world in crowds. 
A single individual can rarely be indebted to a crowd, 
but it is a trifling matter to put a crowd under obliga- 
tions to an individual. And so he stood with regard to 
society. 

He was like, what famous man is it ? who said that the 
death of one or two friends would have killed him, 
while a multitude of acquaintances might perish with- 
out spoiling his appetite for supper. He would have 
been a philosopher, had his philosophy not taught him, 
that, like many other things, it would prove an ungrate- 
ful vocation. 

Walton perfectly followed out Florence’s last instruc- 
tions, although rather surprised Father Drelincour had 
come alone and without his priestly garb. 

Clarence was told by the faithful woman, that Miss 
Andrews had gone out, but had left a package and a 
note for him in the study. Her absence was a great 
disappointment, but somewhat softened by his being 
admitted to the study, that sanctum of sanctums, where 
he soon found himself. “ I shall wait until she returns,” 


“ The Irony of Fate f 139 

he had said, “ or leave an answer to her note ; ” and the 
woman had gone away ; and he was alone. 

It was a very lovely place, in which to dream of love 
and his happy future ; he seemed in no haste to open 
the note, probably an apology for Florence’s absence ; 
she would be here, surely, in a few moments. So he 
lounged around the room, touching tenderly all her 
treasures ; she seemed so near — her pen was still damp 
with the ink she had been using. 

A withered bunch of daisies nestled at the feet of a 
bronze satyr, who looked as if he would guard them 
jealously. 

The soft rose light tinged every object with a tender 
warmth ; and the logs sputtered energetically away on 
the hearth, while the songs of birds came through the 
open windows, making the most delightful medley of 
opposite seasons. 

And he was happy. How pure and noble were her 
tastes, how eloquently those dumb objects spoke of her, 
suggesting her dear presence near at hand ! This 
glimpse of her real home, appealed to every fiber of his 
being, and she would soon be here, and then — he scarcely 
dare think of the then, after that happy moment. 

Meanwhile, he would read her note ; could it be Lady 
Davenport, or her training school, that delayed her 
return ? 

He took up the letter with almost a caress ; pulled 
the envelope gently off ; quietly unfolded the sheet of 
paper, and slowly bringing his mind back from a half 
finished picture on the easel, he began to read : 

“ Clarence, do not try to understand ; I can not ; I had 
hoped for something else ; God knows it was not that 
you would be unfaithful to your vows. 

“ Yesterday I suffered much. Oh ! why did you wish 


140 


A Moral Sinner. 


to see me the wife of another man ? Perhaps you thought 
I could have been happy — content ? I do not call you 
cruel. What am I writing you ? I scarcely know. I feel 
I am going mad. 

“ Clarence, I am never, never to be happy again. I am 
on my way to purgatory, only no one will call it that. 

“ I am going to expiate my sins in this world, in the 
exalted position of Countess Elzevir. I shall be Percy 
Garritson’s wife when you read this ; and half the world 
will envy me. But you — you will understand. I need 
not tell you it is pity, remorse, not ambition — for my 
ambition was to learn to love your religion, and like you, 
consecrate my life to God. But my path leads, alas ! not 
to the peace, the quiet of a convent. 

“ These are the last moments I breathe the free air of 
an unfettered existence. Am I a coward to wish I might 
die right here, at this moment ? Good-by, life ! good- 
by, hope ! good-by, freedom ! good-by, all, all but 
duty. 

“ Dear friend, far away in your sacred home, pray for 
me, that I may be faithful in every thought to my hus- 
band. 

“ Clarence, tell me truly, did I, for a few hours in Cim 
tra, steal away your heart from your church ? I am a 
woman, and it is so pleasant to know that one is loved. 
If this be so, I wish to make a trifling payment for those 
happy days. I send you my string of rings. Dear old 
ings ! they are all I have, but they may be worth enough 
to procure a few masses for my tired soul. 

“ Farewell, farewell ! Soon you will be here reading this 
just where I write. Oh ! Heaven, why have you decreed 
so cruelly that I must go away forever ? Leave behind me 
all that I love ? I have not shed one tear, but I feel 
them dropping one by one, on my dead heart, each with 


“ The Irony of Fate." 141 

a sad, tender echo of our past. Clarence, for the sake of 
the duty laid out before me, I trust I shall never, never 
see you again. Pity me, and be kind.” 

“ Great Heavens ! what did it mean ? ” 

It meant that his “ sublime success ” had turned to a 
satanic irony. A mocking devil sat there beside the bronze 
satyr, in the red light, laughing loudly at his shattered 
dream, and the withered daisies. 

It meant that he must go home alone. There was no 
answer. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE COUNTESS ELZEVIR. 

Is it true that time will stupefy any suffering, what- 
ever it may be ? as the old Scots believed the tortures of 
hell would pall were they not intensified hour by hour. 
It may be so. Who knows the sorrows of his neighbor ? 
How can we be sufficiently grateful to our Creator for 
endowing us with that subtle ability for concealment, by 
which the vain regrets, the hopeless aspirations, the 
wretched retrospections, are smothered, huddled away 
out of sight of the curious world ; which enables us to 
laugh most loudly at our own heartbreaks ! 

Our hearts to-day are but physiological starting points ; 
a necessary organ, a little more sensitive, perhaps, than 
our lungs. Common sense is the knight-errant that 
guards its softer tendencies. Sometimes, in an unex.- 
pected struggle, that stalwart protector is overthrown ; 
sometimes, he voluntarily falls asleep ; then, unless it 
meets with requited affection, that vital center will have 
a very hard time of it. Time, like the invaluable strat- 
ina, may do great wonders toward healing it ; it may last 
for years, but it will be less precious and more delicate 
for its nicks and cracks. 

More than a year had passed since Florence had been 
Countess Elzevir ; and if she still suffered, God helped 
her to hide it. 


The Countess Elzevir. 


143 


They had been living in the south of France for many 
months, and Percy now believed himself perfectly 
recovered. 

They were happy ; yes, happy, both of them. It was a 
strange chain of circumstances that had developed into 
the perfect content that was now theirs. 

They had been married immediately, and from that 
moment Florence had never left her husband. He was 
greatly changed, much older ; the life he had led seemed 
to have left him unsullied ; he squandered away his 
health, but he exhaled all the evil of his nature. He had 
hated every hour, every pleasure of that fearful season ; 
but it was gone, the misery left behind. And they were 
friends. Every detail in Florence’s short romance he 
knew, she had told him all, and for her sake the name of 
Drelincour was a sacred memory, that lay buried beneath 
their present happiness. 

She had never heard one word of Clarence. Lady 
Davenport alone understood how terrible had been their 
mistake, and many were the sad tears she shed in secret, 
over the wretched denoument of her cherished hopes ; 
as for speaking his name to Florence, that she never 
dared. 

He had received her letter, the poor child knew from 
Walton ; that was all. He had followed her bidding, and 
never tried to see her. She always pictured him far 
away in his French home, in the beautiful chapel, pray- 
ing for the peace which had come at last to her. 

Her love slumbered ; she believed she had ceased to 
care. 

But it must not be imagined that peace had come at 
once ; the struggle to crush that powerful cry of her 
heart had been a weary labor of days and weeks. Some- 
times hours would go by, and she would imagine herself 


144 A Moral Sinner. 

content. “ It is all over,” she would think, “ at length I 
am at rest.” 

Then, in the dark hours of the night, she would dream 
of Cintra, and all that happened there, and when she 
awoke and found it but a memory, her whole soul sent 
up a wail of regret, of utter helplessness*, “ hungry and 
lonely and sharp,” and she would weep for very pity of 
her own misery, in those dark, horrible moments of 
agony. 

But now, for a time, her pain was lulled to sleep, 
exhausted from its sheer intensity. Perhaps, there is an 
exquisite martyrdom in having reached the depths of 
human suffering ; but then, who knows, for certainty, 
when they have reached that depth ? 

Now they had come home ; how much that meant to 
both ! The weary journey after health and peace was 
ended, and they had returned to lead an ideal life, up in 
the old castle in the North, where the ivy shut in with 
jealous care a little world of their own. 

The old Countess Elzevir, Lady Garritson as she liked 
better to be called, could rest content only when she 
was near her dearest child, meaning Florence, whom she 
regarded as Percy’s mental, physical, and moral salva- 
tion, and she was repaid by a sweet, tender devotion 
from the young girl, with which old age so loves to be 
caressed. 

And to the tenantry who lived on the lands of this 
long neglected northern home, Florence’s coming seemed 
the advent of an angel, after the reign of a not unusually 
brutal overseer. 

One morning Percy came to her in the old French 
garden. He always approached her now with a tender 
deference, as if he felt his own unworthiness ; to her it 
was the sweetest pleasure life held, when she could win 


The Countess Elzevir . 


145 


him from himself, making him forget that sad, dreary 
winter, when he had wasted his life mourning for her, 
dazzling him sometimes with the wealth of love she 
believed now entirely his. 

“ Percy, I am so glad you are here,” she exclaimed, 
going to meet him, as he came quickly down the path. 
Her hands were filled with bright, gorgeous blossoms. 
Had “ Maud ” been in her garden, even in the dewy sun- 
lit morning, she could not have been more lovely than 
Florence as she stood there, with flowers at the right of 
her, flowers at the left of her, flowers all round her. 
“ These roses are always pretty,” she said, with a radiant 
smile, “ but they are beautiful when you are looking at 
them, too.” 

He stooped down and kissed the hands filled with 
roses. “ They are not even pretty to me, when you are 
not by,” he said sadly, but returning her smile. “ I can 
.enjoy nothing unless you are with me, Florence ; every 
thing is hideous when I am alone ; and now I am going 
to beg another favor, my countess, something I expect 
you to refuse.” 

“ Then, I shall disappoint you,” she answered, “ for I 
am trying to be as amiable and as inane as possible.” 

“ Florence ! ” he exclaimed, “ if I did not adore you, I 
should hate you. Why are you so good to me ? This is 
another debt of gratitude I owe you.” 

“ You must not talk so,” she said, slipping away from 
him to pick up a flower she had dropped. “ O, look at 
this lovely, dead butterfly ! ” she cried, holding up a yel- 
low, gauzy thing ; but he did not look at the butterfly, he 
only looked at her. 

“ The favor ? ” she asked, presently, “ what is it ? ” 

He was leaning against an old broken bit of statuary. 
“ Clarence Thornberry has returned from Japan,” he 


A Moral Sinner . 


146 

said slowly, “ and, Florence, I would like very much to 
have him visit us ; you know I have always had a great 
admiration for him." 

“ Well ?” she turned away, so that he should not see 
her face. 

“Well?" he echoed. 

“Why not have him ?” she asked, at length. 

“ But I know you have always disliked him.” 

“ No, Percy,” she replied, earnestly, “ I only thought 1 
should dislike him, if we ever met. You remember,” 
she went on slowly, “ I told you I expected to meet him 
that day. Percy, those old, foolish, wretched days are 
over, we only have one another, so let your friends be 
mine.” 

“ Thank you, dear one,” he said tenderly. “ I was so 
anxious to know this man better ; he was a great friend of 
my brother’s. He is so grand, so noble. Promise me you 
will like Clarence Thornberry when he comes.” 

“ That I am sure will be very difficult, but send for 
him, and I will try to be as kind as possible, because he 
is your friend ; ” she looked lovingly up at him. 

“ Oh ! my precious one ! God was very good to give 
you* to me,” he murmured, softly. 

“ God was good to teach me before it was too late 
how wicked I had been. Percy ! ” she cried passion- 
ately. “ Percy, my husband ! tell me here, here in the 
bright sunlight, with God looking into both of our 
hearts, that thus far I have been a good wife to you.” 

“ My dear little girl ! ” he whispered — all the flowers 
lay scattered at their feet, bis arms held her fast — “ before 
all the angels, I swear my wife is the best wife in the 
world ; that she is my life, my soul, without her — great 
heavens ! I can not think of life without you, Florence. 
God would not be so cruel as to take you from me,” 


The Countess Elzevir. 


147 


“ And, Percy, no matter what comes,” she said, leaning 
back so as to look straight in his eyes, “ you will always 
believe I try to be good and true to you, whatever I may 
be to others ? ” 

“ Dearest, I love you ; and no power on earth could 
make me doubt your truth. I might doubt my own, but 
yours — never. But, ma petite, why are we talking such 
nonsense?” and he looked down on her, laughingly. 

“ I do not know,” she answered, slowly ; “only when 
you spoke of Lord Thornberry coming, I felt I would 
like to hear you say once more, that I, all by myself, 
had made you happy.” 

“ My darling, I shall never be able to tell you how 
happy,” he softly said, “only I knowhow miserable I 
was without you.” 

Then they walked slowly back to the castle. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


‘ ‘ O, call back 

Yesterday ! bid time return ! ” 

King Richard. 

The third. The third was supposed to mean that a few 
more guests were to be lodged at Elsinore ; that was all. 
But, alas ! it also meant that, in a cottage, not half a 
mile off, a poor little child was going to be called away 
from this cold, unfeeling world, leaving a broken-hearted 
mother, who was foolish enough to mourn the loss of so 
small a thing. 

The young Countess Elzevir, knowing how ill the 
child was, chose to neglect her duties as hostess, and 
spend the afternoon with the weary woman whose pas- 
sionate love had not been sufficient to hold the life of 
her little one. 

Half-past three — the struggle was over ; the dreary 
world was drearier to another heart. Florence had made 
it a little less lonesome, a trifle less miserable ; that was 
all that lay in her power to do for that desolate mother. 

She was standing at the window keeping watch, while 
the poor, tired creature rested a moment, now that her 
task was done. 

“ It seems wicked," Florence thought, “ to be as happy 
and content as I am when there is so much sorrow in the 
world. What have I done more than this woman that I 
am so blest ? ” A clatter of horses’ feet ; she looked up. 


“ Bid Time Return .” . 149 

Her husband, probably, driving some one home from 
the station. 

What a pretty cart it was ! How the chains clanked ! 
Yes, there was Percy, dear, good Percy, whom she had 
grown so fond of, and beside him was seated — Father 
Drelincour — 

No, no, it could not be. It was Clarence Thornberry 
— it must be he ! 

“ Oh, heaven ! — ” 

Then she sank down senseless for a moment ; for in 
that one second of awful perplexity, the mystery of the 
past was rolled away. She understood it all. 

* * * * * * * 

Where was her boasted happiness ? Her hard-earned 
peace ? Gone, gone, gone ! Oh, agony ! What could 
she do ? Must she go home ? Must she see him ? Bid 
him welcome ? Look up in his eyes and smile ? Put her 
hand in his ? And all the time be true in every thought 
to her husband ? 

“ Great God, give me strength,” she cried. “Cruel, 
cruel, that he should have come ! God make him to 
have forgotten ; make him no longer care — ” 

The carriage came for her. She sent it back. She 
must walk. She must have time. She must think. 

* * * * * * * 

“ I remember being here years ago, but somehow the 
place looks differently to me now.” Lord Thornberry 
said this while he and Percy were waiting for dinner and 
the others to appear. 

“ And it is different,” exclaimed Percy ; “ wait until 
you see her, my beautiful wife. Thornberry, by Jove ! 
1 did not know it was allowed for mortal man to be so 
happy.” 

Clarence said nothing ; he did not even smile. 




A Moral Sinner. 


150 

Why he had accepted Percy’s invitation he did not 
know. The months he had been in Japan had not 
changed him ; they had only intensified every good and 
evil quality he possessed. 

He had not come here to gratify a morbid curiosity, 
as some might imagine ; his feelings for Florence were 
too sacred for that. It was not that he hoped she still 
cared for him ; he would sorely regret having caused 
Percy one little pang of jealousy. 

He had come simply because it was beyond his power 
to stay away. 

And there, apparently so calm, he waited in the hall- 
way, gazing sternly into the open fire as he unconsciously 
stroked the head of a great mastiff. He waited quietly, 
but a fierce excitement racked his very soul. 

Every second seemed to him an eternity. Would she 
never, never come ? This suspense was the most mad- 
dening torture ; he longed to see her, still he dreaded it. 

What would she do ? It would be impossible to hide 
her surprise. He rose from his chair, pushed the dog 
from him. He must first see her alone ; but where ? and 
how ? 

“ I believe I left my handkerchief in my room,” he 
exclaimed, suddenly. “ How stupid ! Pardon me, a 
moment, Percy, while I run after it.” What a foolish, 
paltry excuse, he thought ; “ but I might meet her on the 
stairs, in the corridor, somewhere.” And he did. 

She was leaning against the long Gothic window, on 
the first turning of the grand old stairway, looking out 
on the green, dreamy valley below, with its misty streams 
still catching and holding for a moment longer the light 
of the setting sun. 

Did she know he was there ? was she, too, afraid ? he 
thought, and his heart leaped with a wicked joy. But 


“ Bid Time Return .” 


151 

she seemed perfectly unconscious of his presence. How 
beautiful she was ! Never had he loved her more 
ardently. But — she was Percy Garritson’s wife ; and for 
a moment some good angel tempted him to turn back, to 
go away, and leave her in peace, standing calmly there 
by the half-opened window. 

“ Florence,” he murmured, it was so low, hardly more 
than a name breathed in a sigh. 

“ Ah ! I did not hear your step,” she said, turning to 
him quietly ; “ pardon me for being such a wretched 
hostess. You are Lord Thornberry, I am sure ! ” she 
gave him her hand, looking earnestly at him the while. 
“ Lord Thornberry, I am very glad that I have seen you 
alone for the first time. I want to apologize for having 
always disliked you. I believe I was a little prejudiced,” 
she smiled at him, thinking he would make some reply. 
But he was silent ; he could find no words to answer 
her. 

“ But now as you are my husband’s friend,” she con- 
tinued, “ I am going to be very fond of you ; I trust you 
will like me in return.” 

He said no words, but knelt down, and kissed the hem 
of her gown. To him she was no longer a woman. She 
was a saint. 

“ Come,” she said, gently leading the way. “ Percy 
will be so happy to see us friends at last.” 

He looked at her wonderingly. How could she be so 
calm? Not a nerve had seemed to quiver, not a word 
faltered, while he could not utter a syllable. 

Had she not recognized him ? and a quick pain rent 
his heart. Not even remembered ! Oh ! the torturing 
agony of that thought ! 

All through dinner he watched her, marveling more 
and more. She was so calm, so grand, so beautiful ; true 


152 


A Moral Sinner. 


she ate nothing, not even her favorite aspic de foie gras j 
but she kept up a brilliant, clever conversation with a 
young dramatist, who sat beside her. They were all 
bright, interesting people, but as of old, she guided their 
talk, and the young author won three mighty friends, 
and innumerable good dinners, by being so skillfully 
brought out. 

Every moment Clarence suffered more. “ My love, 
my love,” his heart cried out, “ you have not forgotten, 
you could never be so cruel ! ” Still, the doubt grew, 
though fiercely he fought with it ; slowly it turned into a 
certainty, for she did not even avoid him ; but rather 
sought him out. 

Later in the evening, he came and seated himself by 
her. He felt he would go mad, did he not discover how 
she regarded him. Was it possible this sweet serenity, 
this evident indifference, was but assumed ? Still, it 
seemed more improbable that she had failed to recognize 
him. Which was it ? He must know. 

And she, following every thought, every doubt, longed 
to tell him the truth. Only to whisper, “ I remember all, 
I, too, am miserable.” But no, that could not be. Now, 
at this very moment, she must strengthen every suspicion, 
make him believe she was as frivolous, as heartless, as the 
world had once thoughtlessly called her. 

“ Lord Thornberry, you are not at all as I expected to 
find you,” she said calmly, as he bent over her, with a 
look so intense, she felt her very soul laid bare, a gaze so 
mournful, so beseeching, that she turned white with fear, 
doubting her strength to meet and return it as her future 
peace demanded. 

“ Your personal appearance I mean,” she continued 
bravely ; “ you resemble an old friend of mine, Father 
Drelincour.” 


“ Bid Time Return." 153 

“ A dear friend, I trust,” he answered hoarsely, a sud- 
den joy transfiguring his whole being. 

“ Very dear,” she lightly replied, looking toward 
Percy. “ I owe him my knowledge of the Spanish ro- 
mances ; and his friendship taught me,” she went on more 
earnestly, “ to understand, and appreciate my husband,” 
She looked up at him, a heavenly light shining in her 
eyes, seeming to veil from her the passionate agony of 
the man standing there before her. 

It was worse than to have been forgotten. She had 
indeed grown indifferent, since she no longer guarded 
that sacred friendship, since she could speak of it so 
carelessly. 

But when she bade him good-night, the unconscious 
appeal for forgiveness her eyes besought, made him 
almost guess the truth. 

******* 

A week passed, and Clarence still wondered. He so 
wished, so longed, that she might recognize him, that he 
could not banish all hope ; a lingering spark now and 
then cheered his miserable gloom. One moment he was 
convinced she knew him, remembered every hour in 
Cintra, felt the same toward him, as when they together 
walked in the lovely old Spanish garden ; the next 
instant, he laughed at his conceit. Care for him ! he 
was less to her than the meanest beggar that .knocked at 
her door, for she could give him nothing. 

Often he was cruel, cruel, without meaning to be, in 
his vain attempt to discover how she felt . 

And this week to her was the most terrible of her life. 
Never before had she known the need of deceiving her- 
self ; but now, she dared not think, dared not reason 
with her own heart. “ It is the surprise, the shock ; I 
am acting like a silly school girl,” she would sternly tell 


154 


A Moral Sinner. 


herself many times during the day. “ I love Percy, of 
course — he is my husband. Father Drelincour is dead; I 
never could have truly cared for him. It is Percy whom 
I have always loved.” And this she would repeat again, 
to convince herself that it was true, trying like a child to 
learn a hard lesson. 

To meet him in the early morning ; in the lazy noon ; 
in the dusky eve ; to meet him unexpectedly twenty times 
a day ; to have him help her gather flowers ; to serve 
him tea ; to hear him sing those songs she had known so 
well in Cintra ; to ride every day alone with him and 
Percy ; to walk under the old forest trees ; and still never 
betray her secret ! It was terrible ! But fearful a strain as 
it was on her self-control, there was an exquisite joy 
mingled with the pain of having him near her. Poor 
child ! vainly she tried to persuade her heart these thrills 
of happiness came from her love for Percy. 

And then she would be seized with that miserable 
dread, lest she had done wrong — the saddest, most dis- 
heartening of all doubts, when one has tried hard to be 
true. Was she right in thus deceiving Percy ? Should 
she have told him who Clarence was ? But he had not 
been well of late ; and he enjoyed Lord Thornberry’s 
friendship so much, that Florence could not bring herself 
to rob him of it. So, buckling on the stoutest armor, she 
resolved to suffer the crudest martyrdom rather than 
deprive Percy of one hour’s pleasure. 

The weeks went by, and each day the task was grow- 
ing more difficult, for Percy, after a month’s gayety, 
determined to invite no more friends to visit the charm- 
ing home, but to more truly enjoy himself alone with his 
wife and Clarence, whom he was constantly urging to 
remain ; thus he was testing Florence’s loyalty to a 
degree he never could have imagined. 


“ Bid Time Return ** 


155 


With the old countess, the three lived together in the 
closest intimacy, entirely dependent on each other for 
amusement. Had Florence never known Thornberry 
before, it would have been hard to remain indifferent, they 
were, in every thing, so perfectly sympathetic. But with 
all their past binding them together, it was a life full of 
peril, full of danger. 

Early one morning Florence arose. (After four days of 
rain a sunrise is a very beautiful sight.) It was early, very 
early, when she stole down stairs, and out of the house, 
like a truant child. 

Walking along the cliffs, battling with the wind, that 
had not yet been lulled to rest after its glorious rampage 
of so many hours ; watching the angry waves dash on 
the stubborn rocks ; seeing the great red sun light up the 
world ; her enjoyment was perfect. For the moment she 
passed out of herself, forgetting her doubts and fears ; 
she soared beyond the mundane ; not realizing she was 
only a mortal, intensely happy at being so completely 
alone with Nature. It was a moment when her soul 
thanked God for having lived, and prayed to be submis- 
sive to His will. 

But some malignant spirit had ordained that never 
should this exalted frame of mind take possession of her, 
that Clarence should not be there to share it. 

He, too, had wakened early, and drawn by a restless 
longing for he knew not what, a sympathy with Nature 
in her turbulent mood, he had gone out oil the cliffs, and 
there they met. 

They would have been more than mortal, had they not 
enjoyed that hour alone by themselves ; the water strug- 
gling against the stones, as they were struggling with 
their hearts. And still, one would have thought they 
were strangers, seeing them there, so little did they talk ; 


A Moral Sinner. 


i 5 6 

for what could they say ? what subject had not been 
spoken of in the old Spanish garden ? 

“ I am so glad I was not Marie Antoinette ! ” Florence 
exclaimed, suddenly. “ Think how fearful it would be to 
have a whole nation know that you had risen to see the 
sun rise, and censure you for it.” 

“ Poor Marie Antoinette ! and still her misery has made 
her famous,” he murmured ; “ she would have been for- 
gotten but for that.” They were only words to make her 
speak again. 

“ If fame means pity, it is galling, not sweet,” she said, 
hurriedly. “ Would Marie Antoinette have given one 
hour’s happiness for a letter of condolence from every 
man in Europe ? ” 

“ Of course not,” he replied, “ and still it was her pride 
that was most cruelly hurt. She believed so fully in the 
divine right of kings. She had no moral sufferings. 
There are martyrs more to be pitied, whose names we do 
not even know ! ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, slowly, “ the depth of human 
misery is not reached until the heart besieges the soul, 
when, following the dictates of the one, we must crush the 
conscience of the other.” 

“ What ! ” he asked, bitterly, “ do you mean when a 
woman’s judgment, her honor, all her higher mental qual- 
ities form a tribunal to arraign the weaker tendencies of 
her love ; and when they are mercilessly slaughtered, she 
calmly unfurls a banner of peace and submission ? ” 

“ Thank you, Lord Thornberry, for so generously 
understanding me,” she said, coldly ; “ but, as for poor 
Marie Antoinette, the crowd reviled her, and it is not 
half as sad for a whole people, to whom you are indif- 
ferent, to misunderstand you, as one individual, whom you 
have cared for. But we all know it is easier for those 


“ Bid Time Return." 


157 

we love to hurt us than those we hate.” Her words fol- 
lowed each other undecidedly ; one could almost believe 
that fierce, bitter tears were not far off. 

“ Ah ! little one,” he thought, “ you still have a heart,” 
and again he felt that wicked joy. 

“ For, have you not noticed,” she continued, gravely, 
turning toward the castle, “ how sensitive a mother is 
regarding the affection of her children, when she may be 
careless to the indifference of all the rest of the world ? ” 
Then the doubt returned — this was simply a train of rea- 
soning. 

Very quiet this life seemed to the world outside, classic 
almost in its simplicity. To Florence and Thornberry 
every moment was redolent with the irony of what life 
might have held, had it not been for the foolish prejudice 
of a girl, and the mad caprice of a man. 

And still Clarence lingered, knowing Percy liked his 
being there. As for Florence, he did not believe she 
cared ; to discover whether she knew him had become 
the desire of his life ; and he could no more refrain from 
putting her to every test, than a zoologist can resist tor- 
turing the delicate animal creation that comes within his 
power. 

After riding, Percy, weary, perhaps, with the exertion, 
would beg Clarence to read to them in Florence’s little 
boudoir, which was his favorite smoking-room ; and 
Thornberry, in a wild desperation, a hopeless hope for 
something he could not explain, would read the soft, ten- 
der words of Meredith, or the older, more passionate 
love of Dante ; and Percy, lying on the lounge, woald 
fall asleep. But Clarence stiil read on to her alone, 
making that little room, all red and gold, echo with the 
wooing of other hearts ; in those moments of the most 
poignant regrets, the bitterest torture, the most fearful 


58 


A Moral Shiner. 


temptation, what joy one little reference to their past 
would have been ! One word of tenderness would have 
fallen as the precious dew upon their wasted lives. 

But no, it could not be ; sitting there in the firelight 
they were privileged only to bewail the heartbreaks of 
others ; but even that was easier than to talk, so on and 
on he read, and each, sighing over these imaginary woes, 
wondered at the other. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


PARAGRAPHS. 

There is little more to tell ; and that shall be told in 
paragraphs. 

Now for a short time, a most healthful reaction set in ; 
brought about by the arrival of Lady Davenport, who 
allowed no one to be melancholy, but herself. There 
were no more quiet half hours, no more lonely rides ; 
Florence regarded her coming an inestimable blessing. 

But the good lady, for the first time in her life, had a 
real trial to bear ; some one had inconsiderately told her 
she was growing old, and this doleful fact now became 
her favorite theme of conversation. 

“ Oh ! my child ! ” she said to Florence one morning, 
“ you do not know how painful it is to grow old ; to have 
age forever prohibiting certain pleasures, to be styled ‘an 
old bore’ because other people of sixty have outlived 
their physical powers. In what am I different from a 
girl of twenty ? My hair is white, my face is wrinkled, 
but has that altered my mind, or my nature ? Do I 
enjoy less a beautiful picture or the sound of a lovely 
waltz ? Am I so unwieldy that I can not enjoy the rush 
of a horse beneath me ? ” Poor Lady Davenport, it was 
hard for her to feel old. Most of her life had been spent 
in storing up her youth. Her father was a veritable old 
hermit, and kept a private tocsin of his own, and until 
his daughter was past twenty-five she was obliged to 
retire at the early hour of eight. And now, after a short, 


i6o 


A Moral Sinner. 


gay life of thirty years, the world called her “old ”, when 
she felt as young and as strong as any debutante that will 
next season appear in London. 

They were sitting in a little room on the eastern side 
of the castle, beautiful only on account of the part 
nature had usurped in its decoration. Long ago, when a 
tragedy had occurred here in the old house, and it had 
been closed for years, the servants, in their haste to be 
off, had forgotten the windows of this little room, which 
were left open. And when the heartless heirs returned* 
quite indifferent to the fate of their great great-grand- 
father, they found the ivy had crept stealthily in through 
those neglected casements ; for in the winter months it 
was a shelter nook, that little corner of the castle, a lovely 
spot to put forth tendrils ; and a cozy resting place for 
the snow birds that followed its example. And now the 
room, with its gorgeous tapestry of ivy, was another sight 
always shown to the visitors of Elsinore. 

Here they were sitting when Lady Davenport con- 
fessed her dislike to age, a week after her arrival. 

“ But, dear one,” Florence tenderly answered, “ no 
one remembers that you are old ; you make them forget 
it ” 

“ Is that true, my dear ? ” she asked, radiant with pleas- 
ure. “Ah ! well, it is because my nose has not yet met 
my chin. Poor Faust,” she continued, after a pause, “ I 
always feel a sympathetic twinge for him, for selling his 
soul for youth. Are we not fortunate,” she said, turning 
to the old countess, “ not having such temptations put in 
our way ? One is so strong when they have no oppor- 
tunity to be weak.” 

“ Very true,” replied Lady Garritson, quietly, “ but one 
often finds one’s self stronger, when the moment of tempt- 
ation comes than one expects. The noblest woman I 


Paragraphs. 1 6 1 

ever knew was represented to me as a weak, selfish 
girl, without heart, without reason, without pity ; and I 
have found her, in the time of the greatest suffering, the 
most terrible trials, so pure, so exalted, I could bow 
before her as the embodiment of womanly perfec- 
tion.” 

Clarence looked at Florence, who in the most uncon- 
scious humility did not imagine to whom Lady Garritson 
referred. But to him there was no doubt. “ Percy’s 
mother,” he thought, “knows that I care for Florence ; 
can it be that this apparently peaceful life is one long 
struggle ? Can I have added to her burden ? ” and his 
conscience smote him as he looked at the face that had 
grown paler and thinner during his stay. 

“ I suppose we often make the temptations harder for 
one another to resist ; but it is because we do not think,” 
he said, turning to the old countess ; he wished in some 
way to justify himself. “ A man is never such a brute 
as to be intentionally cruel, and above all, he never 
could hurt a woman he once cared for. You believe this, 
Madame Flora?” and he looked at her, beseechingly. 

For a moment she regarded him a trifle scornfully. 
A woman often makes scorn the stronghold of her 
misery. “ No, Lord Thornberry, I do not believe that,” 
she answered, slowly ; with her husband sitting near her 
looking so ill, and his mother not far off, she must find 
the courage to deal another blow to the man she believed 
she had ceased to care for. “ I think. Lord Thornberry, 
that a man when he loves a woman the most can be the 
crudest ; that, miserable himself, he will subject her to 
the most fearful tortures, so that he may not suffer 
alone — ” 

“ Stop ! ” he cried ; “ you are wrong ! ” He forgot every 
thing in that moment when she told him of what he 


A Moral Sinner. 


162 

knew he was guilty. “ Great Heavens ! no man can be 
so heartless ! ” 

Florence was white, whiter than the beautiful lace that 
fell trembling round her throat ; but she looked at him 
calmly, and a little silvery laugh was the response to his 
vehement denial. “ Lord Thornberry, you destroyed my 
climax. The man is not really unkind, he is very consid- 
erate after all ; for the suffering he inflicts upon her so 
effectually crushes her love, that, in a short time, she is 
quite indifferent to him. And now, Lady Davenport, if 
we are going to ride I think we may excuse ourselves.” 
On her way to the door she stopped by Percy’s chair. 
Clarence was dazed, fascinated : where had she found 
the strength to answer him ? and now was she going to 
kiss Percy : never before had he seen her the least affec- 
tionate ; that, she had always spared him. He would 
have turned away had he the power ; lower she bent 
over her husband, and for a second her lips touched 
his. 

******* 

“ How desperately tangled those three lives are,” 
thought Lady Davenport during her ride. “ O, if I were 
but young } ” and she gave her horse a vicious little lash, 
as if it were his fault. “ I could make this man fond of 
me. What at sixty is liking is love at twenty.” Here 
Clarence came riding up to her. 

“ Lady Davenport, you are a famous horsewoman,” he 
said. 

“ We are all famous in what we love. And still, even 
for this healthful amusement, I have to pay a fine. Lord 
Thornberry, people call me a crazy old woman, just 
because I have been blessed with strength beyond my 
age, and choose to make a proper use of it. The world 


Paragraphs. 163 

is forever echoing Pericles’s impertinent speech to El- 
pinice.” 

“ But a woman never loses with age ; she acquires 
rather with it ; think of the treasures stored in her mind,” 
he replied, gayly ; at thirty, a man can be so cheerful 
about growing old. 

“ Bah ! ” she exclaimed, angrily, “ you do not even 
believe what you say ; they store up nothing but years 
and recollections, both very uncomfortable companions.” 

“ Lady Davenport, why are we all so unhappy this 
lovely morning ? ” he asked, suddenly. 

“ Are you unhappy ? I confess I am,” she answered, 
“and I will tell you why — I am having trouble with my 
heart.” 

“ Oh ! no ; I trust not,” he cried, anxiously, “ let us 
ride more slowly, I beg of you.” 

She laughed heartily. “ Not my physical heart, boy, 
my mental one ; perhaps I should say my soul was a 
trifle unnerved. I have been more fortunate than Diog- 
ones in his search, I have met an honest woman, and it is 
rather a knock over to my theory. If I remain here a 
week longer, I shall doubt that all humanity is base. 
Now you are bad, and I am bad, but the young Countess 
Elzevir is developed into an angel. Lord Thornberry, 
let us go away before we hurt her.” She put out her 
hand, pathetically. “ Come, my boy, come with me for a 
visit to my home in Wales, where my dogs and birds will 
welcome you.” 

“ Lady Davenport, I accept your invitation,” he said 
solemnly ; “ let us go to your birds and dogs, we can do 
them no harm.” 

* Hi * * * * 

It was a chilly, drizzling day, the one previous to their 


164 


A Moral Sinner. 


departure ; drearier, even, than the three stormy days that 
preceded it. Percy, tired out with reading, induced Clar- 
ence to take a stroll with him ; carrying their guns in the 
hope of seeing a stray sea-bird. 

Five, six, they did not return. Lady Garritson went 
to the window ; her boy was out in all that terrible rain ; 
it always appears to rain so much faster and harder — the 
rain seems wetter — when some one is out in it we love ; 
worse even than when we are there ourselves. 

“ But here comes Percy,” and a great wave of - thanks- 
giving goes up from the mother’s heart. There had been 
no danger, but still it was good to see him coming up 
the path, cold and wet though he was. 

Scarcely had she turned from the window when she 
heard his voice ringing through the house — 

“ Martin ! Bartlett ! Quick ! be off to the Sphinx. 
Lord Thornberry is in terrible danger there. Quick ! all 
of you. O, heavens ! Florence,” he cried, “ what shall I 
do ? Clarence is down there, buried beneath all that 
fallen rock, dying, no doubt.” 

“ Dying,” she echoed, in a dull, cold way, “ where is 
Clarence dying, Percy ? ” 

“ Florence, Florence, how can you be so calm ? We 
were out on the rocks shooting, and one of the birds fell 
on the sandy ledge below, and I, like a fool, insisted on 
going down after it, though Clarence warned me not to. 
Well, I got down, and my strength gave out, and he 
came to help me. Just as he had pushed me safely up, 
Florence, the whole base of the rock gave way and he 
disappeared.” Poor Percy ! He flung himself in a chair 
and wept, heart-broken. “ Why could it not have been 
I ? ” he asked. “ I am ill and weak ; but Clarence, Clar- 
ence ! my poor, poor friend ! ” 

Florence did not move. He was dead, perhaps. She 


Paragraphs. 


165 


was not even conscious of Percy’s presence. “ He is 
dead* dead,” she thought. Martin and the others had 
gone to his assistance, but what hope was there ? They 
could not render him any. 

She went to the window ; saw their lanterns through 
the mist. How soon would they bring him back to her 
dead ? 

She had on only a thin muslin gown, light slippers, her 
hair falling loose, as it had been when Percy called her. 
Just as she was she went out, in all that rain ; followed 
the lantern ; hid herself so they should not see her ; for- 
getting she was cold and wet, her feet bruised by the 
rough path she had trodden. She watched them dig, 
and dig, and dig ; crouching near to them, she heard 
them declare, “ he must be buried beneath the rock itself.” 
For an hour she stayed there. At last they gave up the 
search. “ No use trying to move the Sphinx,” she heard 
them say. “ He could not have lived five minutes, if 
caught under that.” 

She turned and went home. Half way up the road she 
met Percy, alone and haggard ; she stepped aside ; he 
must not see her ; she had no right to mourn for Clar- 
ence. The wind howled ; her hands were cold, and stiff, 
and bleeding ; she fell on her knees. 

“ O God, let me die ! ” she cried. “ I have been blind ; 
I am more wicked, more miserable than ever. Clarence, 
Clarence, I love you, I have always loved you. How 
can I live knowing you are dead ? Oh, God, give me 
strength.” Slowly she dragged herself to the house. 
Creeping round to the little ivy-covered room, that 
opened on the portico, she turned the handle of its door. 
Alas ! it was fastened ; but some one within had heard 
her, and hastened to unbolt it. 

She shrank back ; no one must see her there. They 


A Moral Shiner. 


1 66 

would think it was the wind ; she was about to rush 
away, when the door opened suddenly, and the dim light 
within fell on the form of Clarence Thornberry. He 
had been saved by a miracle. 

It was the supreme moment in both their lives. There 
in the wind and rain stood the woman whom he loved. 
Her shoes torn, her gown clinging to her like the cold, 
unfeeling folds of chiseled drapery ; her hands clasped 
in an agony of joy. And she was beautiful, more 
beautiful than ever, with a wild, frightened loveliness 
which he had never before seen. 

It was for him that she had gone out in the storm ; 
the dread of his danger had made her insensible to her 
own suffering. These thoughts floated through his 
brain in a sort of misty radiance. And still, as he bent 
over her, lifting her tenderly into the room, he felt only 
the purest reverence for this woman, who had always 
been so brave. One moment he held her. 

“ Florence,” he murmured, “ would you have cared ? ” 
His arms were about her as he spoke, and he felt a 
tremulous shiver pass through her frame ; it was like 
the last sigh of a dying soul. 

“ Cared ! ” she answered fiercely. “ What have I in all 
this world but my husband ? O, Lord Thornberry, tell 
me that he is safe ! " What, in this climax of her 
martyrdom, sustained her ? 

He pushed her from him. It was not for him she had 
gone out in the rain ; he had not given her a moment’s 
anxiety ; it was for her husband, who had not even been 
in danger. 

“ Madam Flora,” he did not look at her as he replied, 
“ Percy is quite safe, be assured.” He went toward the 
door, with a bitter laugh, “ I believe even his bird was 
carefully preserved, if you are anxious about that also.” 


Pa rag raphs. 167 

It was not generous of him, but she had hurt him twice 
that day. 

As he put his hand out to open the door he felt his 
arm caught, he turned, and there beside him she was 
kneeling. 

“ Clarence, be kind,” she cried, “ do not let Percy 
know how foolish I have been, how I feared something 
terrible had happened to you and to him. He is so ill, 
and it is so hard to do what is right.” She bent her 
head lower, she dared not look up at him. “ Lord 
Thornberry, you will be kind,” she entreated. 

“ Kind,” he muttered hoarsely, looking down at her 
with a hopeless, passionate longing ; “ why should I be 
kind to you ? What have you been to me ? ” 

“ I have tried to be a faithful wife to your friend,” she 
said slowly, turning from him sadly. She was not angry 
or indignant at his reproach, only grieved, grieved that 
he could feel so toward her, and she was so tired and 
cold. 

“ Florence, Florence, forgive me,” he cried, gazing at 
her regretfully as she leaned against the old chimney 
piece, “ forgive me for being the brute misery has made 
me.” 

She put out her hand, which he took with a sad 
humility. “ Good-by, Lord Thornberry,” she said. 
“ God only knows why it is that some of His children are 
so wretched.” 

Then she turned away and went up the narrow stair- 
case that led to her sleeping room. He did not see her 
again, for on the morrow he, too, was gone. 

* * * * * * * 

Lord Thornberry did not remain long with Lady 
Davenport ; her cottage was very pretty, her cats and 
birds very interesting, her dogs all of the finest breed, 


A Moral Sinner . 


1 68 

herself delightful ; but Clarence, alas, was restless and 
unhappy. The quiet, peaceful life annoyed him. A cat, 
happily lapping her milk, exasperated him ; a dog, con- 
tentedly sleeping on the door mat, wounded his feelings. 
He felt he m&st find something to quarrel with, to fight 
against. He thought of joining an expedition to the 
frigid zone ; a polar bear might prove congenial. 

And Lady Davenport, too, longed to be on the war- 
path again. She was devoted to her Welsh home, but she 
could never stand it for more than a week at a time. 
She loved it tenderly when far away. At a distance of 
five hundred miles she had been known to shed tears 
over that vine-covered cot. Ah, well, we are all more or 
less ridiculous in our affections. 

In a moment of unusual self-denial and good hearted- 
ness, when she caught a glimpse of how miserable 
Florence was, she had determined to carry Clarence off 
at the expense of her own pleasure. But the instant 
that Sodom and Gomorrah, as she called herself and her 
guest, were installed in her old coach, she bitterly 
regretted her advice, for she liked Elsinore immensely. 

So after a week of cats and dogs and each other, the 
old lady and the young man separated joyfully. They 
were still very good friends, but even at sixty it is not 
pleasant to watch a man mourning the loss of another 
woman. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE CRUISE OF THE HERON. 

Time went on, just as it has gone on from the very- 
first day of those marvelous six ; and as it will continue 
to, until the awful crash comes, when perhaps some one 
up in Jupiter or Mars will exclaim “ there goes a shoot- 
ing star ” ; and our little world will not even be missed 
by the heavenly bodies. Time treads on whether we be 
happy or sad ; and the years we label sorrowful are as 
short as those that have been glad. If we were a nobler 
type of mortals, not so selfishly interested in our own 
fortunes, we might lead pleasanter lives ; for some one is 
always happy, and forgetting ourselves, we might rejoice 
in their good luck. Bah, what nonsense ! no one would 
be so foolish as to enjoy witnessing another’s content- 
ment, when they are unhappy ; in fact it is often a great 
comfort to find some one else as miserable as ourselves. 

June again. June, however, seems to take a much longer 
time coming than March or April ; those disagreeable 
months, like disagreeable acquaintances, are so ready to 
pop in before they are expected. 

Every body was in London, even Percy and Florence, 
although the former was really ill. He had taken a ter- 
rible cold a short time since, and it seemed impossible 
for him to rid himself of it. 

One day they met Lord Thornberry. He had been 
away, no one knew where ; it was doubtful if he himself 


170 


A Moral Sinner. 


could have told. He was rather changed ; his hair was 
growing white ; every one said he was handsomer than 
ever ; but he was not gratified, for he hated them all ; 
and was tired and sick of his own self. 

When he met the Countess Elzevir, he brightened up 
immediately ; he had been longing so many months for 
one look at her. He begged them to pay him a visit. 
He was so quiet, so calm, Florence believed the old love 
was dead ; so she willingly accepted his invitation, as 
Percy was very anxious she should do. 

Lady Davenport was the only other guest. For a few 
days they had a pleasant time in this lovely home 
of Lord Thornberry. They all enjoyed it, even Flor- 
ence, who was so used to struggling with her heart, so 
perfectly mistress of herself that she could now be almost 
amused at Clarence’s hopeless efforts to make her admit 
a recognition of him. He continually referred to her 
visit in Cintra, and their mutual friend, Father Drelincour, 
but she was so candid, so unaffected in speaking of him, 
that he doubted more than ever. Every morning he 
brought her a bunch of yellow daisies ; but these charmed 
her, they did not terrify as he almost hoped. 

One afternoon Thornberry proposed they should go 
for a walk ; they had not seen half the beauties of his 
home. His forests were his pride ; great old trees, which 
his forefathers, hundreds of years ago, cherished with 
the same honest love. 

And walking there, in the heart of the green wood, 
they met a surprise. 

A little chapel stood there among the trees— of won- 
derful workmanship ; not old and gray like the rest of 
his home, nor covered with the ivy of generations gone, 
but overrun with honey-suckle, morning glories, and 
vines, which grow up in a season. Every thing about it 


The Cruise of the Heron. lyi 

was young and fresh and lovely. Out from the open 
windows rolled a grand Ave Marie ; a tender light filled 
the little sanctuary as they entered. It seemed, in that 
lonely wood, a sacred aria of color and sound ; a spot in 
which a sweet sense of purity stole through one’s heart. 

As they stood there, under the beautifully carved 
entrance, listening to the solemn music, Clarence told 
them the story of the chapel. 

“ An uncle of mine built it,” he said, “ as a memorial 
to a woman whom he loved. He did a foolish thing; he 
won her heart under the disguise of a priest’s robe, but 
his deceit was punished ; for in the hour he had hoped 
to consummate his own happiness, she became the wife 
of another. She sent him her jewels, that an hundred 
masses might be said for her tired soul ; so he built this 
chapel, and every evening an Ave Marie is chanted here 
for the peace of his lost love. The jewels he left to me.” 
Clarence added, after a pause. “ Perhaps you would like 
to see them, Lady Florence ? ” 

“ No,” she said, gazing at him calmly, “ I think, Lord 
Thornberry, a legacy like that woman’s should be kept 
sacred.” 

But when they returned, he insisted upon showing 
them to her ; he led her to a little room his mother used 
to love ; a curious room, hung in old faded silks. 

Going to an ancient cabinet, he took from it a small 
package. The same that Florence had left on her table, 
that sad dreary day, years ago. 

“ How cruel he is to bring me here,” she thought ; 
but she was calm, even interested in this unknown 
woman’s jewels. 

“ Countess Elzevir, will you not open the package ? ” 
he asked, offering it to her. 

She took it, even thanking him for the honor he was 


172 A Moral Sinner . 

paying her. But it almost fell from her hands, they 
were so cold and trembling. 

There on the table lay her dear old rings, on the same 
yellow ribbon she had last strung them. She looked at 
them sadly, then at him. He was bending toward her 
eagerly. “ She must yield ; she can not ignore these,” 
he thought. 

She pushed them slowly away, “ Lord Thornberry, I 
do not think we are generous to thus pry into the sad 
secrets of the past.” 

“ Is that all ? ” he exclaimed bitterly. “Are you tired 
so soon of looking at them ? ” 

“ May I add another ring to your collection ? ” she 
asked ; “ mine is only a trifling sacrifice, scarcely worthy 
of being mentioned, when compared to the great one of 
that woman.” She took from her finger a tiny circle of 
gold, old and worn now, the ring that he had given her 
long ago ; she slipped it on the yellow ribbon, which she 
quietly handed back to him. 

He caught it up and flung it into the drawer. He had 
not believed she could be so cruel. But he did not suffer 
more than she. 

* * * * * * * 

Percy grew worse. The doctors said he must go away. 
The most desirable thing would be to take a cruise — go 
to the Mediterranean, or pass the coming winter in 
Algiers. But, for a long time, he scorned the idea that 
he, the strongest man in his class when at college, should 
have to go away for his health. 

One morning at luncheon, however, he admitted that 
he was ill. “ I do not wish to die yet awhile, so I sup- 
pose I will have to go somewhere,” he said, pathetically. 

“ Dear Percy, do not talk of dying,” Florence begged. 


The Cruise of the Heron. 173 

She felt for him a tender protecting love which she might 
have given to a child. 

He was restless that morning. He rose from the table 
and went over to the window. “ Florence,” he exclaimed, 
suddenly, his back toward her ; when he made a request 
he knew would be hard for her to grant, he never looked 
at her ; “ suppose we go on a cruise, and suppose we ask 
Thornberry to go with us ? ” There was no answer. He 
had a faint suspicion she would not approve of the idea ; 
of late Clarence and Florence had seemed to avoid each 
other, and he remembered her old animosity. He 
thumped on the window pane waiting her reply. “ Thorn- 
berry is a very good fellow, an excellent fellow to go up the 
Nile with. Florence, he would save us a courier, and 
even guide books,” he added, trying hard to be cheerful ; 
that silence was very disheartening. 

“Percy,” she at last answered, with a sort of groan, 
going to him, “ do not ask me to do this. Lord Thorn- 
berry visited us ; I tried to be his friend for your sake. 
We visited him, and still I tried to do right for your hap- 
piness. Oh ! my husband, you do not know what you 
are asking of me. Percy, I can not be that man’s friend ; 
do not ask me ; think how hard it would be to see him 
always, every day, every hour, never to be able to get 
away, a yacht is so small.” She leaned her head down 
on his shoulder. She dared not think of all such a cruise 
would be to her. 

“ George ! ” he exclaimed, “ how you must hate him, 
Florence,” and he laughed, greatly amused. She looked 
at him sadly ; a wild desire came to her to tell him all the 
truth ; but no, it was too late ; always too late, now. She 
shook her head, pityingly, half for him, half for herself. 

“ No, I do not hate him, but I should prefer his not 
going on the cruise.” 


174 


A Moral Sinner. 


“ Very well,” he answered petulantly, “ we will give it 
up, that is all. Florence, I thought you were above the 
silly prejudices women usually have,” and he turned 
angrily from her. He was disappointed and ill. 

“ But why give it up ? you have any number of other 
friends,” Florence replied sweetly. 

“By Jove !” he answered, throwing himself on a 
lounge, “ there is not a man I know whom I could stand 
seeing every day except Thornberry ; and, Florence,” he 
continued affectionately, taking her hand as she stood 
over him, “ he is the only man I have never been afraid 
of falling in love with my precious little wife.” 

She flung herself down on her knees beside him. 
“ Dear Percy, I trust no one but you will ever care for 
me,” she said earnestly. “ Percy,” she continued, “why 
not you and Lord Thornberry go yachting, and leave me 
at home ? It would be delightful ; you will stop a day 
or two at Mentone, or Nice, visit Corsica, and ever so 
many other places, and finally reach Algiers, where you 
will take a long rest. Now come, you would enjoy it ; 
acknowledge you would ? ” she asked, enthusiastically. 

“ Not without you, dear one,” he said, stroking her 
hair, lovingly ; “ we will give up the cruise ; I do not care 
very much about it after all. We will go and spend the 
winter at Mentone ; only it will be rather stupid not hav- 
ing a man to smoke with. I hate the men one picks up 
at those places ; but I have you, cherie, and I am very 
grateful for that.” 

But before the day was ended a note of invitation was 
dispatched to Thornberry to join them on a cruise to the 
Mediterranean. 

****** * 

It was evening, the sun had bowed himself out of sight, 
but the sky was still bright from his lingering caresses. 


The Cruise of the Heron. 175 

The low coast of Algiers, with its rows of square, white 
houses, lay peacefully there as if asleep or engaged in its 
twilight prayer. The Sahel hills and the snowy Atlas 
mountains looked quietly down, joyfully watching the 
present rest of this ever turbulent land. On the right, 
one rather felt than saw those mysterious inlets of rocks 
and shadows where the corsairs hid their treasures. The 
green spot, which the benevolent foreigner occupies with 
soldiers and cannon, was also veiled in the mist of even- 
ing. About every thing hung that halo of enchantment, 
indistinctness. 

Among the vessels that crowded the bay was a yacht, a 
beautiful craft, carrying an English flag. She had just 
entered the harbor, the anchor had been lowered, and 
now the sailors were taking in the canvas, singing their 
strange weird chante (song), which, delightful at sea, 
would be most objectionable on land. 

The Heron , Percy’s yacht, had been on a cruise for 
the last three months, skirting along the coast of France, 
down to the Riviera di Ponente ; stopping for a day at 
Nice, or a week at Monaco, they had enjoyed eating 
olives and oranges in Mentone, reveling in the exotic 
flora of Cannes, and awed by the glorious mountain scen- 
ery of Corsica. 

Florence had dreaded the cruise with Clarence as their 
guest ; but it had not been hard ; he had been very con- 
siderate, very kind to her ; never referring to her past, 
never trying now to make her betray her secret. So 
often had he told himself she had ceased to care, that, 
at last, he believed its truth. It was sad, but it would 
have been sadder had she never cared, and so he was 
kind, because Percy was his friend, and because he 
loved her more tenderly than ever. Living so near her, 
seeing her every day, watching her heavenly devotion to 


1 76 


A Moral Sinner. 


Percy, he could not help being a better man ; sternly 
controlling every impulse of his heart, every thought ; 
struggling with his very dreams, that he might be truer 
to his friendship and his love. And she was at rest ; 
having conquered him through her faithfulness to Percy; 
and happy, with that dumb, blank happiness, which is but 
the cessation of great suffering. 

Percy was no better ; he was so weak that he could not 
stand being taken on shore, as they intended. All he 
could do was to lie quietly, stretched on the deck of the 
yacht, and receive his friends, for he had many spending 
the winter in Algiers ; the doctor, among others, paid 
him a visit every day. And soon the masts of the Heron, 
and its evening gun, were regarded as old acquaintances. 

One morning Percy and Clarence were lying on 
deck, beneath the awning, smoking ; no, only Clarence 
was smoking ; Percy was looking wistfully at his un- 
lighted cigar ; his enemy, the doctor, had forbidden him 
that luxury. 

“ Clarence,” he said, suddenly, pitching his cigar over- 
board — he felt hemust put temptation out of his way — 
“ Clarence, I hate to think I must die, and so soon, too.” 

“ But, Percy, old boy, you are not going to die for a 
longtime yet,” exclaimed Clarence, with a cheerfulness 
he did not feel. 

“ It is no use, we can not help it now,” he replied, sadly. 
“ I shall not live through another week. I feel it here,” 
and he touched his chest; “ there is a dreadful pain, right 
here. No, dear friend, do not feel so badly,” he added, 
as he saw the tears glisten in Clarence’s eyes ; “ for five 
years I have been perfectly happy; few men can say that; 
not an hour would I have changed; not a moment ; and I 
owe it all, all the happiness of those five years, to 
Florence. It is leaving her that makes it hard to go.” 


\77 


The Cruise of the Heron. 

His voice broke in a low sob. “ Clarence,” he continued, 
after a time, as his friend leaned anxiously over him, 
“ she will regret me a little while, for she does not love 
me just as I love her.” Then, there was another pause. 
“ Clarence,” he asked suddenly, “was Father Drelincour 
a priest ? ” 

Thornberry was completely unnerved ; and this ques- 
tion coming from Percy, what did it mean ? He had no 
time to answer. 

“ I understand it all now,” his friend went on hur- 
riedly ; “ it has come to me during the last few days. 
Clarence, you did wrong to deceive her; she has suffered 
through you. I can never forgive that. But now for the 
old crime I demand reparation,” — he was tragical in his 
earnestness. “ Swear to me now, that you will fulfill the 
one request I make on my death-bed, without question- 
ing the sacrifice I demand of you; ” he stopped, looking 
sternly at Clarence. 

Thornberry rose ; solemnly had every word vibrated 
through his heart. Never had he seen his friend thus 
before. He felt the work of years dwindling away in 
that moment, his miserable past laughing with a satanic 
glee at his more miserable future. What had been the 
use of all this deceit ? Must he now acknowledge that 
he had coveted the wife of his dying friend; he had, 
indeed, committed that unpardonable crime ; he could 
but bow his head, and make the promise his friend 
demanded; it was but a small atonement. “ I swear,” he 
began calmly, “ before God and you, to fulfill any wish 
you may express, here or on your death-bed, without 
doubting your wisdom, or questioning it in any way.” He 
looked down; Florence was kneeling by her husband j 
she had heard his promise, and wondered at its strange- 


ness. 


i;8 


A Moral Sinner. 


Percy leaned his head against her ; he felt a sudden 
horrible agony creep through every nerve. 

“You are ill,” she groaned, “tell me what is the 
trouble ? ” 

He smiled fondly up at her. “ You have heard 
Clarence’s promise,” he said gently; “ it has taken a 
great weight off my mind. Florence, my love, you too 
will be kind, you too will make me a promise, before I 
go ?” 

“ Percy,” she cried, putting her arms tight about him. 
“ Percy, do not talk so; I will promise anything, my hus- 
band ; whatever you may desire.” 

“ You have made me very happy,” he said softly. 
“ Clarence will tell you what to say. I do not feel very 
strong this morning.” 

She repeated the words after Clarence, hardly grasping 
their significance, watching Percy as she said them, 
smiling at him and his strange whim. 

* * * * * * * 

Percy watched the sun dance on the bright, blue 
water, “ How merry they are, when they meet ! ” he 
thought. “ Florence,” he said, after a long pause, “ I 
would like Dr. Owens to lunch with us to-day ; he is the 
only minister I have ever met whose piety does not op- 
press; ” she agreed, delighted he was so cheerful, vainly 
hoping he, perhaps, was not so ill. 

The lunch was almost sad, it was so gay, they were so 
merry. Percy seemed wild with excitement. 

“ Oh, how soon this day will be over ! ” he said, regret- 
fully, when they were again on deck. 

“ Florence, cherie , straighten my pillows once more; 
only once more, dear one. I am so happy today — there; 
kneel down by me, and put your hand into mine; you 


1 79 


The Cruise of the Heron . 

have been a very good wife to me. God bless you, Flor- 
ence ; remember your promise. Doctor, it is a long 
story; you must not judge any of us harshly.” 

“ Percy,” Florence whispered, “ try and sleep ; do 
not tire yourself. ” She feared his mind was wander- 
ing. 

He only drew her closer to him. “ I have no time 
to sleep yet awhile,” he answered, sadly, “ but I am 
content. I do not even regret not seeing England 
again.” 

“ Percy, Percy,” Florence cried, placing her hand on 
his mouth, “you shall not talk so, my darling.” 

“ Florence, dear,” he gently replied, “ I shall never go 
home again ; do not feel so badly, cheriej you have made 
my life very happy ; I have no cause to complain — Oh ! 
how dark it grew ! — tell them, doctor, you know what 
I wish. Florence, Clarence, one half hour after I am 
dead, Dr. Owens will make you man and wife ; I could 
never be at peace, until you are committed safely to his 
care. That is my wish ; darling, good-by ; ” he fell back 
exhausted. 

“ Not that, not that,” groaned Florence. “ Percy ! oh ! 
my husband, any thing but that.” It was too late, for 
Percy was dead. 

* * * * * * * 

Many had been the romances these African waters had 
witnessed, but never before had they seen the widow of 
an hour forced to become the bride of him she had 
alwavs loved. Never before had they watched the 
nuptials of a strong, impassioned man, and a woman cold 
and hard and beautiful, like a marble saint taken from a 
cloister niche ; dazed, startled, terrified by this sudden, 
this unlooked for event. 


A Moral Sinner. 


180 

It was over, and she was the wife of Clarence Thorn- 
berry,- but still she did not look at him, or speak one 
word of the present or the past. 

Again, she kneeled down beside Percy, as he lay there 
so white and still ; her whole form bowed in an agony of 
despair; every movement, every breath, seemed laden 
with unutterable woe. Why had he made that terrible 
request ? Did he wish to throw a funereal glamour always 
about her life ? that was unworthy of him. Was he thrust- 
ing her in paradise, or far down into a deep gulf of 
misery ? Had he discovered the secret she had toiled 
so bravely to hide? Had the martyrdom of deception 
been in vain ? She looked at him there, dead. Her 
work was done. “ Could I,” she thought, “ have done 
differently by this man ? ” Step by step she reviewed her 
past ; searching, with a scrupulous honesty, for a hidden 
evil in any action; weighing with a cruel justice the worth 
of every sacrifice. Calmer and calmer she grew, until, at 
last, a restful gladness penetrated every fiber of her being; 
an ecstasy of rapture filled her soul, and a voice from 
Heaven whispered that her task had been well and faith- 
fully fulfilled. 

And Clarence watched her the while, not daring to dis- 
turb her. He felt a wild fierce joy as he gazed on this 
woman who belonged to him. She was his, all his, before 
God and man ; he forgot all else ; forgot the past; forgot 
the future. To him it seemed that were the doors of 
heaven opening, the immensity of his bliss could 
not be greater. 

But, now, for a short time, only an hour, he must leave 
her and go ashore. She might mourn for Percy while he 
was gone ; in the twilight, he would come back, and 
comfort her. 


The Cruise of the Heron. 1 8 1 

In the twilight he held only a crumpled bit of 
paper. 

“ Again, I have to say good-by ; again, as in the old 
days of Cintra, I have to go away. O, my love ! my love ! 
will the time ever come, when I shall be free to give 
myself to you ? How my heart yearns after you now, as 
I see you going toward the shore. Clarence, I dared not 
look up as you passed me a moment since, or I could 
never have torn myself away. I have loved you always, 
always from the first, long ago in France ; 
but I have been Percy’s wife ; he was your friend ; 
let us mourn him a single year. It seems long, longer for 
me than my whole life ; and his mother, we must not 
forget her. Farewell — in one year, I will gladly go to 
you, wherever you may be. Good-by. Your Wife.” 

He crushed the bit of paper in his hand; he had lost 
her again ; she had gone in the English steamship, he 
met leaving the harbor ; again he had to wait. But, at 
least, and he looked tenderly down at the letter he had 
treated so cruelly, at least, she had not forgotten 
Cintra — she had known him all the time. 


CODA. 


Slowly the year travels round. A year of peace and 
expectation, which Florence spends with Percy’s mother, 
who vainly'begs her to shorten, by a month, or a day, the 
period she has set apart to mourn. For the old countess 
longs to see her son’s wife enjoying the happiness 
she had unknowingly snatched from her six years 
before. 

The sun climbs up behind the old Moorish archway, 
and peers over into the garden at Cintra. In the early 
morning a woman comes slowly down the path bordered 
with hyacinths ; she is looking sadly down at the 
camellias that are drooping under the weight of tears 
the night has shed upon them. Suddenly, she hears a 
step. She turns ; and then — 

* ***** * 

There, with his arms around her, the memory of their 
misery fades away ; they are conscious only of the 
unutterable happiness of that moment ; the great con- 
tentment of the coming years. 

The camellias raise their stately heads; they are all 
smiles now; the sun has tenderly dried away the tears ; 
the violets shake off the morning dew ; the birds 
seem frantic with delight, as Florence and Thornberry go 
back to greet her whose affection they will always cherish 
and revere, for her own, and the sake of him whose 
friend they have both been. 












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Isaac Walton. 

Henry Mackenzie. 

R. B. Sheridan. 

Bishop Latimer. 
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Horace Walpole. 

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Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 
Martin Luther. 

Francis Bacon. 

Lord Macaulay. 

Samuel Johnson. 
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Dean Swift. 

George Crabbe. 
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Mrs. Inchbald. 
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Sir Thos. Browne, M.D # 
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John Milton. 

Goethe. 

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Lessing. 

John Bunyan. 

Wm. Shakespeare. 
John Pinkerton. 
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M. G. Lewis. 

Plutarch. 

Sydney Smith. 

Moritz. 

Fouque. 

Coleridge. 

Wm. Shakespeare. 

S. Johnson. 

Charles Dickens. 

Rev. John Keble. 

Chas. Waterton. 

By Himself. 

Jas. Sheridan Knowies, 
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Isaac Barrow. M.D. 


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61— The Tempest- 

62— Rosalind. 

63— Isaac Bickerscafl. 

64— Gebir, and Cou: t Julian. 

65— The Earl of Chatham. 

66— The Discovery of Guiana. 

67— Natural History of Selborne. Vol. I. 

68— The Angel in the House. 

69— Murder as a Fine Art.— The English 

Mail-Coach. 

Natural History of Selborne. Vol 
Trips to the Moon. 


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Thomas Lodge. 

Steele’s “ Tatler.” 
Walter Savage Landor, 
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Sir Walter Raleigh. 
Rev. G. White, A.M. 
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Lucian. 


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Alexander Pope. 
Arthur Young. 
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Washington Irving, 
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Shelley. 

Henry Fielding. 
Thomas Woolner, R. A. 


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John Keats. 

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History of the Caliph Vathek. 

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The Table Talk. John Selden. 

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Solon, Publicola, Philopoemen, Titus 
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111 
112 

113 

114 

115 


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The Republic of the Future. 

King Dear. 

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Early History of James Second. 
Diary of Samuel Pepys.-1667- 1668. 
London in 1731. 

Apology of the Church of England. 


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